i'll sing you the jacinth song of the probable stars
by missmandamargo
Summary: you are are little tired now; tired of things that break, and- just tired. so am i.
1. Part 1

When I first met you, I had braces and you had pigtails and you fell down when trying to do the second position arabesque. The other kids in our ballet class laughed at you – but I didn't. I liked your pigtails and your big brown eyes. I helped you up, and even though you made a face at how sticky my palm was (sorry! I was eating Sweet Tarts!) you still mumbled _thank you._

"I'm Brittany," I told you, even though we had been in class together for a few weeks now and I was the only Brittany there – there were _three_ in my kindergarten class, but you know that because I told you – and anyway, you said,

"My name is Rachel Berry." And you gave me a half-smile that made your dimples peek out. "I'm going to be a star someday."

I didn't know what you meant. When I think of stars, I think of webs of light caught up in a quiet blackness, or of Tinkerbell and fairy dust, and myths surrounding beings that, in my mind's eye, all vaguely glow. I don't think of the kind of star you mean, Rachel – even now, after all these years; after hearing it, time and again, and even after _believing_ it, for you, and in you.

I was confused, but – even then, in second grade – I was used to that. "I can help you with that." I said, gesturing with a hand.

"Oh." You frowned, glanced down at your lacy pink shoes, and back up at me. "I'm disappointed in myself, really. I've been dancing since I was three."

I nodded, because it seemed easier than responding. "Still, I can help. If you want."

"Sure." You brightened and gave a full smile this time, and I had to smile back at you. But then in a second your face transformed, and I swear I was captivated – it looked like a storm rolling in; you seemed troubled and angry all at once. "Wait, is this some kind of prank?"

"Uh—" You were too quick for me, Rachel. You still are, sometimes, though now I'm used to the way you can change on a dime. You whipped around, quickly, with a fist planted on your hip (your leotard was pink just like your shoes and I imagined you in a tutu even though we weren't wearing them that day) and glared around the room. But nobody was paying attention to us, not even the teacher, who was busy with a parent in the corner. It was just us.

"Well, if it is, don't bother," You were huffy, and you even stomped a little when you faced me. "I'm too clever for childish tricks."

"Why would I want to trick you?" The idea seemed funny, so I laughed.

"Why would you want to _help_ me?" Your voice was high with suspicion. I couldn't think of anything to say. Why _would_ I? Why did I?

Why do I still?

I expected it to get awkward, as it usually does when someone is waiting for me to answer and I can think of nothing to say, but it didn't. The more we stood there, the calmer your face got, and eventually you gave me a weak smile. "Sorry," You whispered. "It's just – sometimes – people make fun of me."

"I know." I nodded.

"S-so you can really help me?" You seemed incredulous. "With the arabesques?"

"Yeah," I could feel the energy building in me the more I thought about it. "Then after that we can work on those _whoosh_ things, and then—"

"The whoosh things? What do you mean?"

I made a gesture with my hands, but it didn't work. Your eyebrows gathered together above your eyes, and you were frowning. So I shrugged, and then promptly bounced upwards on my toes, my arms falling down by my waist. In a moment I spring upwards, twice, and landed quickly.

I heard you gasp. "How did you _do_ that?"

I shrugged. I really didn't know – I still don't – but moving is easier for me than talking. It's easier than thinking. It just happens, as effortless as a heartbeat; much less complex than stringing two words together to form a sentence.

"There she is," You jumped at the new voice, but I just turned around slowly. "Brittany, are you showing off again?"

"No,"

"She wasn't." You answered quickly, and you put yourself between me and her. It's so funny to remember now – because you were so _small_, Rachel, we didn't even look like we belonged in the same age group, and she was so _big_ – and you looked up at her, brazen. "She was helping me."

"Sure." My sister gave you a shrewd look, and then yanked me forward by the shoulder. "Let's go."

"Bye, Rachel," I said, because even she can't make me forget how to be polite.

"Goodbye, Brittany," Your eyes were troubled. "See you next Tuesday."

* * *

We took ballet class together until you were doing _all _arabesques as well as me, and even some of the other moves. We spent endless sleeopovers with you trying to teach me the words – but they're French, and that makes them twice as hard – and the whole time I was showing you how to stretch and where to put your legs, you were trying to make the terms and phrases stick in my brain. I have to hand it to you, Rachel, you are persistent, if nothing else.

I think we were thirteen when we had our first fight, and it was about ballet.

It was right before a big recital (which you _weren't_ the star of, which made you kind of upset) and I sat on your carpet while you did my hair. It didn't occur to me then, but remembering it now, I realize – how strange it is that you can knot hair into the most perfect ballerina bun, but most days you can't master a simple braid? I had never been to regular school with you at that point, but I have since then and I know how hard it is for you to manage your hair – and I said,

"I think I'm quitting ballet."

"_What?"_ My head jerked as you yanked, hard, on my hair, and I yelped. "Sorry!" You patted my scalp, as if to shoo the sting away. "But what, Brittany?"

"I just think.." I could tell by your tone of voice that you were getting flustered. "I think I want to try something else."

"Like what? Tap? I can teach you tap." You drummed my shoulder with your fingertips, signaling you were done, and then you handed me your brush. We changed positions, you sliding onto the thick carpet and me sitting on the edge of your bed.

"Tap dancing," I said it musingly, and held a lock of your hair between my fingers, letting it fall slowly. You swatted at me, jerking around, and I finally ran the brush through your hair. "That's boring. I think – _contemporary, _or.. " I struggled to remember it, since I had just read it on the pamphlet that the dance school sent home with my mom. "Hip hop. Stuff like that."

"Hip hop? _Brittany_," you said my name with that derisive kind of tone that always set my teeth on edge. "There's no _art_ in that. Don't you get it? You could be _great,_" And in true Rachel fashion, you turned and placed a hand on my knee, making meaningful eye contact. You meant it to be dramatic, or at least.. emphatic. But it was just silly, because half of your hair was twisted in my hand, and the rest of it was wispy and clinging to your face. "I really think you have it in you to be a prima ballerina. One of the best of all time – you could get into Julliard. I know you could!"

"But it's just not.. right. I don't know," I said it quickly, because I could see you working yourself up into a fervor. "It just doesn't feel right, Rachel. I like ballet – but I don't _love_ it."

"How can you say that?" You seemed genuinely upset by this. "You're the best I've ever seen. You have a real talent. I mean it, Brittany."

I know you meant it. You still mean it – even though we don't talk about it anymore.

"I don't want to be the best at something I don't love, Rachel." I shrugged, because it was easy for me to understand.

"That's – _ridiculous,_ Brittany. It's like you have this gift and you're just _wasting_ it!"

"I don't think it's a waste." I smiled, trying to lighten your mood. "Maybe I'll be great at hip hop and still love it."

"You can't – tell me you're joking. Brittany," You shifted around, and it was so funny because your chin was level with my knees and you kept looking up to my eyes, and I know it had to be an uncomfortable position for you. "You won't ever get anywhere being great at hip hop dancing. So what? The best thing you could hope to be is a backup dancer to somebody like Britney Spears?"

"Hey," I frowned. "Not h—"

"I know," You rolled your eyes. "I know. But if you were a ballerina, Brittany, you could dance with the greatest ballet companies in the world! You could perform Black Swan at theaters in London and Austria! You could be a _name,_ a somebody, a st—"

"Rachel." I stopped you by placing both of my hands on your shoulders and shaking just a little. Your eyes had that glazed, faraway look in them that they get. You snapped your jaw shut, and when I could see you focusing on me, I said, "That's your dream. But it isn't mine."

"What is your dream, then, Brittany?" You were angry. You leapt away from me and scrambled to your feet, the chocolate strands of your hair flying everywhere. You huffed, shuffling in front of your mirror, and started jabbing bobby pins into it, trying to tame it. "To frolic around with puppies and kittens and sunshine and rainbows?"

"Um. That doesn't—" I shrugged, deciding not to comment on how that didn't make any sense. "Sure. If I'm happy doing it."

"That's so _childish,"_ You were almost in a fury at this point, and I know you didn't mean it, but Rachel, you said: "It's stupid."

It was one of those moments that they frame up in movies all the time: the world went still, and everything was silent. I could see your reflection in your vanity mirror, and your eyes had widened, your jaw gaping open. I felt like the breath had been stolen from me. It was hard to breathe, and I was a little dizzy – because a moment later it hit me, the wave of hurt that was like a slap.

"Britt." Your voice was gentle and pleading. "I didn't mean it. You're _not –"_

"I know." I said it quickly and stood up. "I'll wait for you downstairs."

"Brittany—"

Your voice chased me out the door. I sat at your piano bench in the dining room while your dads talked about things I didn't understand, and I barely spoke to you on the way to the recital.

It was weeks before I saw you again, because our classes were on a break. I wouldn't have ignored you, but I was definitely avoiding you – you tried to call me, and I thought of increasingly more creative ways to dodge your phone calls (one time I mimed gagging in front of my mom and she became very concerned); but eventually, you sought me out, and there was no more hiding from it.

The _it_ I'm talking about is the way it hurts me when people call me stupid – which is old news, now, though it still digs, hitting nerves buried deep – and I know you understand it, because it's the same kind of pain that claws at you whenever anyone ever calls you _ugly_ or _freak_ or _talentless._ It's the same kind of pain you felt when Mike Chang's mom wouldn't let him play with us anymore after she found out you have two dads. At this point, even as awkward thirteen-year-olds, I had already held your hand when you cried over the pretty girls in your school making fun of your sweaters. I didn't cry when people called me stupid, but you always held me anyway.

I thought staying away from you would make it go away, but it didn't. And seeing you standing on my front porch with a bouquet of sunflowers made it ache even worse.

You were reaching up to ring my doorbell, and I was coming in from riding my bike. I made the choice to see you – I could have just cycled away, and put it off for another day. But you were wearing brown leather loafers and a pleated skirt, and a white headband that was shiny in the afternoon sunlight, and I missed you. "Rachel!"

You spun around and made your skirt swish. You smiled, briefly – I took off my pink Power Rangers helmet – and you walked down the concrete path to my driveway, clutching the sunflowers.

"Hello, Brittany." You smiled your I'm-trying-to-be-bashful smile, but I could tell you were pleased with yourself. You held out the flowers and watched my face carefully for some kind of reaction.

"Thank you." I said, remaining neutral, and I took them from you. "Why sunflowers?"

"Because they're a little bit silly," You said, and shrugged. "Like you."

I didn't know what you were trying to say – it made my heart squeeze in response, and your expression changed so quickly; a moment between being happy and the next concerned. "B-but that's what I love _most_ about you, Britt," You said, and reached forward to clasp my hand that was gripping the flowers. You folded it in between both of yours, and you were very close to me. I could smell your strawberry shampoo and the laundry soap on your clothes, as well as the mild scent of your sweat in the mild heat. You needed chapstick. I could tell because your lips were dry from you worrying them between your teeth, and I had the crazy urge to kiss you. "I love that you're silly sometimes. I'm sorry for being insensitive to you. You have every right to follow your dreams.. whatever they may be."

"I quit ballet." I said, releasing a breath. I watched you flinch, but you didn't draw away. You even squeezed my hand a little tighter between yours. "I'm taking salsa dancing lessons when this year is over."

"Th-that's good." You tried to smile, but it was a little weak. "You'll be great at it, I think."

"You could take them with me, you know,"

"Oh, no." Your eyelids fluttered as you looked towards the concrete. "I intend to master every level of ballet by the time I graduate. It's an important skill to have if I ever want to be on Broadway."

"Shouldn't you take other dancing?" I shrugged. I barely knew what Broadway was, even though you spent hours regaling me with tales about how marvelous it is. "Maybe ballroom dancing? Or swing?"

"Maybe." You sighed. "But if I need any help – you'll still help me, won't you?" You tried another smile.

"Of course." I shifted, looked down at the sunflowers. They were big and bright, and happy. "I'll always be your friend, Rachel."

You seemed relieved at this, and I wondered if you really thought that I wouldn't be. "I still love you even when you're mean." I said it, because it seemed like you needed to hear it.

"I'm very glad." You squeezed my fingers again. "Truly. I am happy to have you in my life, Brittany."

"Okay." You were being hyper-intense, almost-too-scary Rachel. I shifted my weight on my feet, and it made you draw back. The tension broke between us, and we both smiled.

"Hey, you know something?" I said it as we both turned towards my front door. "I think _you're_ more like a sunflower than I am."

"Oh, really? I think I'm more like a tigerlily, or maybe a jacinth –" You gave a ponderous hum. "Why do you think I'm like a sunflower?"

"Because they're bossy, just like you."

"Brittany, how is a flower _bossy?_ And I am not—"

"They're loud flowers. They demand all of the attention. They grow up bigger than other flowers do." I was grinning by the end of the sentence. "They reach for the stars."

Your perplexed, nearly offended expression fell away, and you gave me a shy, almost rueful smile. "You're right, Britt. I am kind of like a sunflower."

I think that might have been the first time you said the words _you're right_ to me, and they made warmth blossom in my chest and spread down the length of my arms to my fingertips. I looped our arms together as we walked towards my porch, and I realized that this was the best thing about friendship – that even when another person causes you pain, that doesn't mean that they can't also make you happy, too.

I learned that from you, Rachel. I never forgot it.

* * *

Just a little drabble. Part one of a three part story, I think. Don't expect the continuation anytime soon, I'm busy with my too many other stories. I hope you like it, and will review anyway. Tell me if you like Rachel at all. I'm bad at writing her, but this is my favorite Rachel ship, so..

The title and description text comes from the e. e. cummings poem, "tired"


	2. Part 2

_you are tired,_

_(I think)_

_of the always puzzle of living and doing;_

_and so am I._

The summer between eighth and ninth grade changed things for us. We knew, by that point, that we would be going to McKinley together, and I honestly think that you badgered your dads into letting you transfer school districts so we could be together. I know it was because you didn't have any friends in your middle school – and the thought of going into high school without an ally scared you. I never pointed it out, because I knew it would make you uncomfortable; and I think that you didn't realize that I would pay attention to things like school districts.

I'm not as oblivious to things as you might think, Rachel. I hope by now you know that. Back then you certainly didn't – and you would lie by omission, hoping it would keep your secrets safe. I still knew what you were doing, but I let you have it. I knew it would embarrass you if I ever said anything about it, so I didn't. I let it slide because it wasn't important; even though it was important enough to _you_ to go out of your way to keep me in the dark about some things.

I still remember the first time you asked me about how to shave your legs. It's a memory that sticks out, because you seemed so flustered and upset to even be asking, and I thought it peculiar that you were worried about what _I_ would think. After all this time – after being friends since we were eight – did you think that I would somehow think less of you? I imagine that must have been the reason for it. It never ceases to amaze me that, after a lifetime of being friends, it's _me_ that can make you self-conscious. I've loved you since before you knew how to pluck your eyebrows, Rachel. It doesn't bother me to see you at four in the morning with your hair in a loose bun and bags under your eyes, or with stinky morning breath, or with hairy armpits. I know you _say_ you know that, now – but back then you didn't, and I learned to be gentle with you about it, because if I laughed or teased you at all, it would only make you withdraw.

We were fourteen and you asked me to teach you how to shave your legs, which was a little startling to me, because I'd been doing it since I was twelve – but, you know, I have an older sister who taught me these things – and, well, you only had your dads. You were so bashful and shy, the opposite of your usually outgoing (demanding) self. You always seem reticent when you realize there are things that I'm better at than you, as if you're ashamed that you aren't the best at everything. I don't understand that, either – do you ever spend time just _enjoying_ something to enjoy it, rather than focusing on how you can be perfect at it? I knew enough about you from ballet that, at this point, I realized it would be a silly question to ask. You wouldn't be able to answer without tripping over yourself trying to explain _why_ you had to be the best at everything, and it wouldn't even answer my question, anyway.

You sat on the edge of your bathtub with your sweatpants pushed up past your knees, and you watched with a critical eye as I lathered your calf with shaving cream. I was a little nervous, but only because it looks different from that end. You didn't even suspect that I might not know how to shave someone _else's_ legs, and I didn't want to make you anxious. It was quiet in the bathroom and it made me tense, but after the first few swipes, I started to relax. It wasn't so different than shaving my own, and after I finished the first, I handed you the razor. "You try."

You looked at me uncertainly, but once you started, the tension eased out of your arms, and awkward, gawky movements became more natural. I smiled when you were finished, proud of what we had done together, and when I looked up at you, you were smiling, too.

"There. That's done." You sounded relieved.

I grinned, using the bath towel to wipe the tiny streaks of white away from your skin. "I sort of miss not shaving," I said, reminded of the first time I ever took a razor to my own legs.

"Why?"

"It's a hassle sometimes." I shrugged, swiped the towel over your feet, and grinned. "Ugly feet."

"Ballerina feet," You corrected immediately, and wiggled your toes. They were bruised and red, and I stroked my fingers over them idly. You flexed your foot and let out an appreciative groan. I rubbed harder, and you ran an affectionate hand down the length of my hair.

"I wish I was blonde," You said it quietly and musingly, and I'm sure you didn't mean to say it out loud.

"What? Why?" I looked up at you, curious.

You startled, freezing in place. "Uh, j-just because – uh." You shrugged, tugging your knees up to your chest. You picked a fingernail over the cuticle on your pinky toe. "Don't you ever want to try something different?"

"I like your hair, Rachel," I said, because I knew you were trying to deflect. "It's pretty."

You flushed, and shook your head. "No, but Brittany – you know how it is. All of the pretty, popular girls are blonde."

"Not _all_ of them. That would be boring. Blonde is boring, Rachel,"

"You don't get it, because you've always been blonde."

I bit my lip and looked at your face, and I could watch the way you were struggling with yourself about something.

"Then just dye it blonde."

"I can't do that – I would look ridiculous."

I frowned. "What?"

"I'm _Jewish,_ Brittany. I mean.. I would look absurd with blonde hair."

"I don't get what you being Jewish has to do with anything."

"You wouldn't," You said, with a beleaguered sigh. "Just forget about it."

I squinted, and for once – I felt a hot spike of anger shoot through me. I'm usually incredibly patient with you, Rachel, but at fourteen, I hadn't learned how to be patient all of the time. And I was beginning to understand that you thought me incapable of grasping certain concepts.

Did you ever stop to realize that it wasn't _me_ who had the problem? That it was actually you, because you make everything more complicated than it has to be?

"I don't even know why we're friends," I said, and I could tell that the tone of my voice shocked you. "If you don't think I can understand anything."

"Brittany, that's not what I meant—"

"It isn't?" I stood up slowly, and your eyes followed my face. I felt a cold ball in the pit of my stomach.

"No. I know that you understand things." You stood up, and we were very close to one another, wedged between the toilet and the bathtub – it was almost claustrophobic. "You're better at understanding things than I am, sometimes."

"You treat me like you think I'm stupid."

"No, I don't!" You were getting frustrated, and it made your forehead wrinkle up. "I just know that you couldn't – you could never understand what it's like, because you're _you!_ Don't you get that?"

"No," I answered immediately.

"Brittany, you're _pretty_, you're blonde, you're – you're a picture-perfect WASP."

"A wasp? What?"

You rolled your eyes and shook your head, dismissing it. "You have a regular family, a mom and a dad and a sister. In every book, movie, television show – they're all about girls like _you._ You're normal, you have a normal life. I'm _different,_ Brittany, and believe me – I like being different. I like being _alternative._ But it gets old, sometimes. It gets tiring. I just wish that there wasn't so _much_ different about me, all of the time."

I sighed, and the anger washed out of me. It's hard to stay mad at you when you say things like that, things which are sad and honest and true. It was like you were opening a tiny window into yourself, giving me a glimpse of all the tender, vulnerable things inside.

"You're pretty, too, Rachel. I like your family. I like your differentness."

You smiled, a little sadly. "I know. I just wish everyone felt the same way that you do."

"Being normal is overrated." I said. "People expect you to always act or be a certain way. They're surprised when you aren't – just what they want." I shrugged. It was the closest I could do, to saying sad and true things. I'm not as good at opening windows as you are, Rachel. I'm not as good at saying things.

You looked at me with a peculiar expression, as if you were trying to figure out a particularly difficult puzzle. Your eyes scanned my face, and you pressed your lips together. "Sometimes you surprise me,"

I smiled. "See what I mean?"

You nodded slowly. "It's a good thing, though.. to be surprising. To not be what everyone expects."

"Why is it good for me to be different, but not for you?"

You looked like I slapped you in the face, you were that shocked.

Why was it so easy for you to reassure me, but so hard for you to do it for yourself?

I can't say I've ever noticed anything really _strange_ or _abnormal_ about you, Rachel. Sure, you have two dads, but that's nothing really, is it? I know plenty of people who only have one mom or one dad, and I'm sure they'd be happy to have two of each if they could. You like showtunes, but so what? My little cousin is obsessed with Pokemon. It's all the same thing, right? I never understood your drive to _fit in,_ which seemed to violently contradict your urge to stand out. I can say with all honesty that I've never done anything motivated by either desire, but somehow you were always jealous of my ability to do both things better than you. It's all in your head, I think. I think you make it harder on yourself than it has to be.

"Let's go watch Mary Poppins," You said, and I knew the conversation was over.

* * *

The next thing that surprised me happened that summer, and it might have been the single most pivotal thing that ever happened between us.

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon, and my parents had let me come over after church. You kept telling me you had something important to show me, and I was lying down on your bed, flipping through a fashion magazine, waiting for you to come out of the bathroom.

I looked up when you opened the door, and I immediately noticed that you were topless. It made my eyes widen, but only because you're very careful to never be naked around me. You're always telling me that it's _immodest_ to dress the way that I like, but I'm not even sure what _immodest_ means and I don't know if it's worth getting mad at you for it, so I don't want to know. Anyway, you had your arms tucked over your chest and were giving me that skittish, nervous expression that means you're very unsure of yourself.

"What is it? Do you have a weird mole?" My cousin Theresa showed me a mole that looks like a stegosaurus on her ribcage once.

"What? No!" You took a few mincing steps forward, into the bedroom, and I sat up slowly. You kept looking around as if you were afraid that someone would come in. But your dads were outside gardening, and it was just us in the house.

"Do they look.. _uneven_ to you?" You whispered, and slowly lowered your arms. You were watching my face, your lip caught between your teeth anxiously, and it made me realize I would have to try to be as neutral as possible. I wasn't sure what you were asking me, but I lowered my gaze, and that's the first time I ever saw your naked boobs.

Okay, even at fourteen, I had a healthy appreciation for boobs. I really liked to look at them on other girls, and I liked looking at my own, too. I think I've always been probably too aware of them, because my mom likes to tell this story about when I was a baby, how I would always reach out and grab boobs. She called it "boob envy" and said it would go away when I grew my own.

Well, I don't just randomly grab other people's boobs anymore, but I still like them. And I _had_ noticed your boobs before – I mean, I've been to your ballet recitals, and those leotards don't leave much up to the imagination – but I'd never seen them like _this._ You were being so tense and shy, though, I knew it wouldn't be appropriate to point out how I'd spent time thinking about what they look like.

"Brittany," You said, your tone a little terse. "Are they uneven?"

"Um," I frowned, and looked from one to the other. "Stand up straight."

You straightened your spine, but your hands were doing a crazy, fidgety dance by your hips, and I could tell you were itching to cover them back up again.

"I think they're fine." I said finally.

"No! This one is bigger! Look," You pointed, looking down at yourself, and then back to me, to see if I was paying proper attention.

I just nodded. "It is a little bit bigger."

You made a strangled yelping noise and your arms leapt over your chest again. "What's wrong with me?!"

I chuckled a little, because you were being overdramatic, as always. "There's nothing wrong with you. It's normal."

"How can it be normal?" Your eyes narrowed, and you looked down at my boobs speculatively. "_Yours_ aren't uneven."

I rolled my eyes, and then with one quick, easy movement, I pulled my shirt over my head. It took me less than second to unbutton my bra, and when it slid away, I shifted so that I was kneeling on your bed instead of sitting. You frowned, your expression slightly puzzled, and you seemed almost reluctant when you dragged your gaze from my face to my breasts.

I could tell you were doing more than just checking them for evenness. I watched your eyes study them, glancing from one to the other, and even though I'm much more comfortable with my own nakedness than you are, it made me feel sort of warm and jittery. Eventually, when your eyes met mine, they seemed troubled, and I had no idea why.

"See? Mine are a little uneven. But so are everyone's."

"Yours look different," You whispered, slowly relaxing your shoulders. "Your.. _nipples._"

I glanced down, and then towards yours. "A little bit."

You gnawed on your lip. "They're pretty." You said it with a sigh, and you ran a hand through your hair almost morosely.

"Yours are pretty too, Rachel," I laughed. It was an odd thing to say about something as innocuous as nipples.

"Mine are too big," You said, your eyebrows knitting together. "And they're brown."

"Tan, I'd say," I corrected. "And who says they're too big? They look fine to me."

"You're just saying that to be nice." You were going into a full on pout, now. You sat down heavily on the mattress, your head bowed, with your hair hanging dramatically over your shoulders. I scooted until I was sitting next to you, and I gave you a little pat on your knee.

"I don't know why you worry about things like this so much."

You wouldn't look at me. Instead, you were staring off into the corner of your room, maybe at the motivational poster tacked to your wall.

"I just.." You sighed. "It's hard not having a mom."

I knew it caused you a lot of trouble. I've seen you watch my mom, sometimes, when we have dinner parties and you come over when she's still cooking or setting up. I guess I take her for granted, since she's always been around.

"I don't really have anyone to ask about stuff like this." You gestured to yourself with a sweeping motion. "Do you remember when I first got my period?"

I laughed, and you elbowed me halfheartedly.

"See? It's funny to you, but that was one of the most terrible experiences of my _life,_"

"Rachel, you're being melodramatic." I gave you a slanted look. "It wasn't that bad. And honestly, getting your period is probably bad for _everyone,_ even us with moms,"

You groaned, and rubbed your hands over your face. "What am I going to do?"

"Well, there's always the internet," I gave a half shrug. "And you can ask me stuff."

Your smile was weak, but it was there, and I always liked seeing it. I grinned at you, trying to encourage you into cheering up, but you just sighed.

"Will it ever get any easier?"

I didn't know exactly what you were talking about – you did this a lot back then, and you still do it now – but I thought I could guess. Did you mean growing up? You know, by now, it never really does. And it got worse before it got better.

"I don't know," I tried to be as honest as possible with you, Rachel. I always have.

"Maybe we should put some clothes on," You whispered.

I smiled again, aware of how we were topless and sitting together on the edge of your bed. Your elbow grazed my bare side, and my hand was sitting on your knee. I squeezed it gently, and you turned a more sincere smile at me.

"Thanks for putting up with me." You rolled your eyes. "I know I can be a bit crazy sometimes."

"Only _sometimes?_"

I laughed when you poked me.

The moment hung, suspended between us, and in my memory it's framed as perfectly as a photo, like an instant frozen in time. You looked at me from beneath your eyelashes, and your crooked smile brought your dimples out. You needed a haircut – your bangs were shading your eyes unevenly, and it was almost a habit for me to brush them out of your face. Your smile weakened and then faltered, but only because I think you could sense what was going to happen before it actually did.

"Rachel." I murmured, "I'm going to kiss you."

Your throat worked to swallow, and I could swear I heard you breathe _"okay,"_ the moment before I leaned in and touched our lips together.

It was almost a shock, the way it felt; soft and tremulous, but warm, and I could feel your breath against my cheek. I heard the sharp way you inhaled, and even though neither of us were moving, it felt like the entire world was slowly tilting off-center. You were tense and tight, and _nervous,_ so I kissed you more firmly, pressing closer to you. You made a tiny noise – a hum – in the back of your throat, and your hands wound tightly into your bedsheets. You tasted like skin and, faintly, of morning toothpaste. You smelled like the laundry detergent your dads always liked to use – Tide, I think. It was always a smell I loved more than anything, because it was clean and honest and _you,_ and I used to bury my face against the crook of your neck so I could be immersed in it. Kissing you, the first time, was a lot like that: clean, honest, and overwhelmingly Rachel. Not Rachel-I'm-gonna-be-a-star-someday-and-I-know-it-Berry, but Rachel the girl, Rachel my friend. Rachel, who is afraid of being alone and despised, and who misses a mother she never got the chance to know.

When I leaned away from you, your eyes were screwed tight, and your face had an expression of confusion mixed with excitement and maybe a touch of fear. I just felt warm all over, like my skin was golden and glowing, and I couldn't help but smile. When you opened your eyes, relief seemed to wash over you.

"Was that okay?" You asked quietly.

"Rachel – of course it was okay!" I couldn't stop myself from laughing. "_I _kissed _you_, remember?"

"Oh." You squinted at me. "Oh! Brittany! We're _kissing_ and we're _naked!_ What are we doing?"

"We aren't naked," I pointed out. "Don't freak out, Rachel."

"I'm not gonna—I'm not – um, not freaking out. Not going to freak out. Okay."

Your hands fluttered, and they reminded me of nervous birds. Your mouth kept opening and closing, as if you couldn't think of what to say. I reached over and closed my hands around yours, stilling them, and waited until you looked me in the eye.

"Rachel. It was nice. I liked it. Did you like it?"

You hesitated, but then admitted: "Yes," A breath, "Yes, I liked it. But Brittany! What are we doing?"

"Nothing," I couldn't help the way my smile spread over my face, slow and feline (and maybe a little smug). "Just kissing."

"I don't know—"

"Shh," I hushed you, and then leaned in and kissed you again. It was quick and easy, different from the first one, and when I pulled away, you were gasping.

"Will you _stop_ doing that?" You huffed, rubbed your palms over your legs uneasily.

"Why?" I tilted my head. "We like it. _You_ like it. So let's keep doing it."

"Brittany—" You chewed on your bottom lip. A second ticked by, and then another, and while you watched my face, I tried to be still and calm. You released one heavy breath and then you edged closer to me, haltingly, as if it took everything in your strength to close the miniscule gap between our bodies. "I don't know what to think about this," You whispered, so quietly that I almost didn't hear it over the blood roaring in my ears. Your tentative progress towards me set me off balance, somehow, even though just a moment before I had kissed you without fear. I felt my lungs constricting, and I swallowed just before you brushed our lips together. I stayed still, because it felt like you were a hummingbird – jittery, fluttery, afraid – and I was a flower you were sampling. Any quick movements would send you darting away, zipping into the wilderness. It made me flush and warm, and it made me _feel_ much more than our other two kisses, or even the ones before that with other people. It made my belly tight and hot, and my heart thundered in my chest.

This time, when our bodies peeled apart, it was me who couldn't breathe.

"So don't," I managed, the words punctuated by a ragged gasp. "You don't have to think about it."

Your smile was bright, even though your cheeks were pink. Your eyes glittered and I couldn't read the emotion there, whether it was excitement or anxiety or anticipation, or maybe all three.

"This feels crazy."

"It feels good," I lifted my hand and stroked my thumb down your cheek.

"Yes," You agreed, tilting your head into my palm. "It does."

It made me happy to hear you say that.

_come with me, then,_

_and we'll leave it far and far away—_

_(only you and I, understand!)_

* * *

__I think this might turn into a five part fic.


	3. Part 3

I know that it was hard for you, but we didn't talk much about _the kissing thing._ It was out of character for you to remain silent about it – and every time, right before we began, or right after we stopped, I could see the questions clouding your mind. It isn't like you to just let something go, and I'm not even entirely sure why you did. I would have talked about it, but I think it was more because you were hiding from yourself than from me.

It changed things between us, though. We weren't the simple (were we ever actually simple?) friends that we had been since we were eight anymore. Instead, our interactions took on a flirtatious quality, and I thought of it as a kind of game. I assumed you did, too – the way you would look at me from under your eyelashes or blush prettily at the most opportune times made me think you were enjoying it in the same carefree way I was. I didn't think – well, that was my failing in this, I suppose. Looking back at it now, I can see how and where it went wrong, and I wish I could go back in time and warn us. I wish I could have saved you from the pain. I didn't understand what I was doing, and neither did you, I think.

The first time it went from soft, tentative pecks to something deeper – the first time my tongue touched your lips – your eyes flew open, and the shock in them was poignant and electric. You didn't pull away, but I felt your chest expand, and your fingers were like vices circling my wrists. It was as if you needed something to hold on to. Your mouth opened for me, and eventually your eyes fluttered shut, and the noise you made when my tongue swept over yours was mixed somewhere between delight and alarm and it made my blood pump excitedly through my body. I had kissed other people – I didn't think I'd ever been someone's first kiss, though; but I knew I was yours. I was your first everything, wasn't I, Rachel?

We kissed like that, long and slow, with our tongues moving sluggishly together, until the air between us was moist and thick. Our lips were swollen and hot, and when we pulled away from one another, the expression your face was strange – it was almost _hungry._ I'd seen it before, in others, but it looked different on you.. it was like something inside of you was calling to something inside of me, as irresistible as a magnetic force, and more than any time before I felt the strongest urge to let my hands dig beneath your clothes and find all the secret places of your body, to put my mouth on the dark, sweet spots of your skin and listen to the way you breathe and pant when you no longer have control. It was really the first time I remember feeling strong, pulsating arousal, but I didn't know exactly what it was yet. I just knew that my body was tingly and buzzing and my heart was racing, and all of the nerves in my skin were aching for something. I wanted to push you against your mattress and find out what it all meant.

"Brittany," your voice was breathy and it made everything inside of me tighten and tremble, like plucking a harp string, "We should stop."

"Uh huh," I said, but I stroked my thumb down your neck and I felt your fingers squeeze in response.

"Let's.. um." You kept staring at my mouth, and I could see how large your pupils were and that your cheeks were red and your lips were puffy. "Go.. play.. Monopoly."

"We can't.." I swallowed, scooted closer to you on the bed. "We can't play.. Monopoly.. with only two people."

You bit your lip, held your breath. I could swear everything inside of me was throbbing.

"I like it when you kiss me like that," You whispered, and heat flooded through me.

"I like it, too," I couldn't breathe.

"But we should stop." You sucked in a breath because my face was nearing yours, and it made me grin at you, gently.

"Let me try something," I said, and could barely believe that I was thinking it. Your eyes widened slightly, but after a moment you just nodded. I could tell you were drawn up and tense, because I could feel your pulse hammering in the vein on your neck. I had one hand resting there, the other settled on your hip, and we were only a breath apart.

Slowly, I lowered my face towards yours, and you drew up as if you expected me to kiss you again. I used my thumb along your jaw to turn your head, and then I planted a firm, wet kiss to the tiny space behind your ear, and you shivered. I did it again, this time using my tongue to wet the spot, and your fingers clamped into the thin material of my shirt. You hadn't made any noise or any other movement, yet, but the warmth flooding your skin was almost scalding. I kissed again, this time a bit lower, and when I tried licking the skin. It tasted the way I thought it would – soft and secret and like _you._ You almost mewled when I tried sucking on it.

I didn't know why kissing you like this – small, wet, hot kisses – made _me_ feel like every single part of my body was on fire, and that I had some kind of pressure building from the tips of my fingers down to the center of my pelvis. I just knew I wanted _more._

You had begun murmuring a small, whining noise in the back of your throat, and you had your bottom lip clamped firmly between your teeth. I could feel the way you were completely rigid, and your fingertips were digging into my wrist so hard I thought it would leave bruises.

You finally shifted, and it made me draw back. Your chest was heaving. I didn't know why I stopped. I wanted to keep going.

You put a hand on my shoulder to stop me from moving back in, and when our eyes met, yours were almost black.

"Let me try it," You said, and I was surprised by how rough your voice was. I raised my eyebrows, but then I nodded, and instead of sitting up right away, I scooted backwards on your bed until I was lying down. You crawled after me, not at all hesitating, until you were hovering over me and then I saw your nervousness. I smiled at you, and pushed your hair behind your ear, and it made you relax. You started slow, by kissing my lips, and I kept a hand in your hair because I liked the soft, thick weight of it against my fingers. You pressed your mouth against my jaw, and then finally high on my neck, and I don't know why the span of just a few inches of skin makes such a difference, but immediately every sensation in my body intensified. I felt that stretched-tight feeling again, and a vibration, a thrumming. Your kisses were soft and a little ticklish, but they started such a fire in me. Your right hand brushed across my lower stomach, and my shirt had ridden up, exposing some of the skin there. It made me shudder. I curled my fists into the blankets of the bed and squeezed my eyes tight, just trying to keep myself still.

Your fingertips skimmed across my belly again, and then they were snaking up my shirt. They stroked gently over the skin there, around my belly button, up higher, along the bottom of my ribs. I could tell you were tentative and exploring – your tongue flicked against my neck the same time your palm brushed my side – but it was winding my body up. I couldn't breathe.

I gasped when your mouth closed over my earlobe, and I felt the sharp scrape of your teeth and then suction, and I couldn't stop the moan that came out of my throat. I bucked, rolling my body, and your hand froze on my abdomen. I felt almost feverish. You pulled your head away, a little startled, and in a second I had my mouth against yours and now our kissing was hungry and furious. I could tell it surprised you, because you squeaked a little, but I swallowed up the sound. My hands dove into your hair, and in an instant I had our bodies switched, your back flat against the mattress, mine with both legs over your hips, straddling you.

The only sounds I could hear was the noisy breathing between us, the little clicks and pops of lips separating and meeting again, and the tiny, almost animal grunts and growls that squeezed out. I couldn't help the way my hips shifted hard against you, grinding down, and your own hands came up to settle there. It felt like a firestorm between us – it went from tentative to boiling in a heartbeat.

"Britt—" you tried to talk to me between kisses, but I couldn't stop. I just wanted.. _something. _Something to do with the pressure between my legs, which only seemed to grow and become more frustrating by the minute. "Wait. It's too much."

I grunted, pulled back, and tried to look at your face. Everything was obscured by a haze of hair and the damp throbbing that seemed to cover my entire body. I didn't want to listen to you. I tried to hear you: _wait. _But it was hard. I didn't want to wait.

"I want you.." It was muffled, because I was nuzzling against your neck, trying to fuse my mouth to your skin there. "To touch me." I used one of my hands and took yours, guided it up the leg of my cotton shorts. "Here."

"Oh." You gasped, and your fingertips tickled along my inner thigh. My breath exploded against the outer shell of your ear, and your own chest expanded with air. Your palm slid against my leg, and then higher, and your fingers finally found the crotch of my panties.

They stuck to me because they were so wet, and I knew you could feel the outline of my _everything._ I whined, and pressed against you, and used my teeth at the span of your neck that connected to your shoulder. You swallowed and your hips raised into me, as if by instinct. Your movements were slow and they made me insane. I was impatient.

I took a breath, because I felt rushed and tight and so _hot_ and full and empty at the same time, but I knew you weren't so sure. Your breathing was hard and frantic but your fingers were so light and soft, as if you were afraid of hurting me – or doing something wrong.

"Underneath," I swallowed, and whispered, "Higher."

You held your breath as your fingers picked beneath the hem of my underwear, but then you let out a strangled sound at how wet I was. I knew that everything was slick and messy and slippery down there. It felt swollen and hot. I used my hand, over my shorts, and directed your wrist until I felt your fingertips brush where I wanted them. Then I moaned, and clutched at your shoulder, and pressed my face against your neck.

"Brittany," Your voice was small and breathy. "Like this?" And you started rubbing.

"Oh God," I whimpered, and rocked into you. "Yes."

My breathing got short and loud, amplified by the small space between my mouth and your neck. My body curled on top of yours, and my heart thundered so loud and so violently in my chest. The pressure inside of me was building – twisting and tightening, at times jumping and leaping, and others building slowly. It was driving me crazy. My hips jerked in a stuttered dance, and my whole body flashed heat.

"Don't stop," My breaths were desperate sobs, because I felt like I couldn't stand it a second longer but I knew that if you didn't keep going I would _die_ –

"I won't," You said, and turned your face to press a kiss to the side of my forehead.

A moment later I spasmed, and my whole body clenched. I cried out against the cusp of your neck, and you froze. My hips jolted, grinding down, and my belly went tight and hard. Then finally all of the strength and movement went out of me, and I slid until your hand was out of my shorts but trapped between our bodies, and I crumpled on top of you.

I was breathing too hard, you not at all. You didn't make a sound, and I moved until my head was resting on your shoulder. My body still throbbed, but it was a slow, satisfied kind of feeling. I didn't know what to call it, except happy. I felt happy, and wanted to lie on top of you (even though I was almost half a foot taller than you, at least) and listen to your heart beat for the rest of the day.

Your free hand lifted up and so, so softly, slid down the length of my hair. The touch was back to being unsure and hesitant, but it felt as nice as a warm sunbeam through the living room window.

"Do you want me to do it to you?" I murmured into the silence.

Your hand paused, cupped my hair, and then continued stroking. "No. No, thank you."

I lifted my face so I could look at yours. You smiled and I didn't expect it.

"It was really good," I said, grinning. "You'll like it."

"I know," You sounded thoughtful. "But Brittany – wasn't that – wasn't that a sexual thing that we did?"

I shrugged. "I guess."

"Was it _sex?"_ Your eyes grew round.

"I don't know." I frowned. "Maybe. Why?"

"Well I just.." You slanted your head, and I began to think my weight on top of you was uncomfortable. I went to slide away from you, but your arms came up and circled me, holding me in place. "I just always thought you should be dating a person before you have sex with them. I always thought you should be _in love_ first."

I decided to think about this, because I knew it was important to you. I watched you and knew you were watching me – your eyes skimmed my face, and it felt like we were trying to exchange messages telepathically. Sometimes I wish we really could do that. Words are too hard.

"I love you, Rachel." I gave a tiny nod.

"Yes, but that's different, isn't it?"

You sounded unsure.

I shrugged again.

I could tell that wasn't the answer you wanted – your eyes grew cloudy, your mouth turned down. I used my arms to slide beneath you, holding you closer to me, so that our hearts beat against one another.

"What we didn't wasn't wrong, Rachel," I said it because I needed you to believe it. I said it as forcefully as I knew how, because I had the sick kind of feeling that you were going to feel guilty or bad about this.

Your eyes dug into mine, like you could extract the truth from them, whatever that might be. It took you a long time to answer: "Are you sure?"

"Yes," I didn't miss a beat. "It felt good and we didn't hurt anyone. It wasn't wrong."

"But was it _right?_" Your voice was thick, like you might be on the verge of crying.

"Rachel," I sighed. "Let me show you. You'll see, it's not.. it's definitely right."

"I'm not ready," You said, and this time I could sense the real fear in you. "I'm not ready for someone to touch me there."

"Okay, Rachel." I said.

You looked like you felt swamped with relief. I brushed the skin on your cheek, and it made a small smile peak out.

"Don't change this," I warned you. "Don't think about this so much you change it into something else. Just – let it be what it was. Please."

You whispered, "But I don't know _what_ it was."

"It doesn't have to have a name," I supplied, and touched my fingers to your bottom lip, softly. "Naming something can make it small or unimportant, or make it into something different altogether."

It took you several long seconds before you finally relented. "All right."

I could tell that you were still troubled, but the light in your bedroom was dim and muffled by your white lace curtains, and the evening sun cast long threads of sunlight on your carpet. Your house was quiet – always much quieter than mine – because your dads were out on a date somewhere. It was the middle of July, and we knew school would be starting in a few weeks. Even though it was in the high 90s outside, my nose was cold, because your dads kept the AC up so high. I buried my face into your shirt, and let the quiet sounds of your breath and blood ticking away inside of you lull me into a daze.

It's easy for me, to let things go – to not spend time thinking about them, or needing to define them. But for you, letting things go is hard, almost impossible. That's the thing about us, Rachel; we're opposites in nearly every way.

I've spent half my life trying to decide if that's what makes us perfect for each other, or if that's what has doomed us from the start.

* * *

I don't know what miracle took place that made you decide to not worry about it – but you seemed to let it go, just as you said you would. You didn't ask me again about the rightness of what we had done.

When I remember it, like this, with the distance of years separating me from what happened, I feel like I was so blind – I made mistakes, Rachel. I made mistakes that I wish I could have had the foresight or wisdom to avoid. I know that I spent the next four years paying for them, which I deserved. But you didn't – you didn't deserve any of it.

It was so _obvious._ It was so obvious, but I was blind to it, and I don't know how.

It was another week before we kissed again, and it was beneath the shade of the old oak tree in your back yard. We had been sitting underneath its boughs, waiting for the hottest part of the day to pass us by. You kept plucking at the dandelions that grew persistently around the tree's roots, though your dad cursed them for weeds and tried everything to make them stop growing. You liked to watch the little white seeds fly away in the wind.

The summer sun had turned your skin the color of dusky hazelnut, and your hair glinted when the light touched it. You had it up in a ponytail, and I could see that sweat had made the little hairs along the nape of your neck curl. I liked to run my fingers through it, to catch the different subtle shades – as dark as midnight at its core, in other places a creamy chocolate, even the flash of honey on the ends. I liked holding our arms together and marveling at the difference – yours so tanned and even, mine gold with a touch of pink, spattered with freckles.

You always smiled delicately at me when I did this, as if it were a silly child's game you indulged in for my sake. You didn't think there was anything special about the shades of your hair or the tone of your skin, and you certainly couldn't understand why I liked looking at your eyes. Plain and brown, is how you described them – but for me, they were like pools, like the night sky, like the color of tree bark or coffee or candies in a Valentine's Day heart.

I lied back in the soft grass, resting my head on my arm. You glanced over at me, and I didn't see you because I was busy looking at the lazy, heavy clouds through the smattering of tree leaves, and thinking about how hot my feet were getting with the sunlight on them. I was thinking about trying to talk you into walking down to the neighborhood pool, or over to Dandee's for an ice cream. I never expected you to bend over me, so suddenly, and block my view.

I smiled, even though I was surprised, because seeing you always did that to me. Your face was wrinkled, as if you were thinking hard about something, and your eyes skipped over mine like a stone skips on water. You seemed determined. I was curious, but not concerned, until you leaned in and then pressed a kiss to my lips.

It had a different quality than our kisses in the past – the kisses that I almost always initiated – because you seemed frustrated, or maybe angry. Your lips were hard and bruising and demanding, unlike the soft and willowy way you've kissed me in the past. Your hand cupped the side of my face, and it felt like an order to _hold still._ Your tongue dipped past my lips and into my mouth, and stole my breath away. I felt like I was on a carousel cranked up to high speed, dizzy and disoriented. I kissed you back when I remembered how to, and it made a noise click in the back of your throat.

I felt pinned in place, both by the strength of your hand on my face and the heat that came from you which had little to do with the midday sun. You've always been smaller than me, Rachel – more petite and compact – and I've never felt like you could best me in any kind of physical competition. But I still felt overpowered, somehow; I felt fragile, the way aluminum foil crinkles up and disintegrates when held over an open flame.

When you peeled away from me, your eyes were black and liquid again, a look I was beginning to recognize. I sucked in the humid air through lips that felt swollen, and I knew my cheeks were pink and burning.

"Do you want to go upstairs?" You asked.

I gave a mute nod.

You stood up first, and offered me your hand. I let you help me up, and dusted the dead grass from my back. You kept your hand closed in mine on the entire journey through the house and up the stairs.

When we were in your room, you pushed me down on the mattress, and started kissing me again like you did before – with determination and force, and more skill than I knew you possessed.

I let your hands (tiny, artful hands) wander over my body, and I let your mouth kiss where it wanted. It made me feel drunk to lie so still and prone, to let you lift up the clothes and reveal me piece by piece, layer by layer. But I knew, instinctively, you needed to – you needed to do this to me, for whatever reason. I couldn't imagine why, but I was glad to let you do it. I was glad when your hands found all the curves and dips of my waist, the soft and quiet places that no one other than me has touched since I was too young to remember.

It surprised me, a little, the breadth of your curiosity – it caused you to do things to me I never imagined; things I didn't think even _you'd_ imagined. It still had the sweetness of innocence and love attached to it, but when you were done, and I was damp and sweating on your sheets, spent and tired and drowsy, I felt more adult than I ever had yet in my short life. I think, by the look on your face, you did, too.

"Was it good?" You crawled on top of me – mostly naked – and stared straight into my eyes.

"You have to ask?" I smiled, pushed your bangs behind your ears. "Let me show you, Rachel,"

This time you hesitated. I could see the flush on your cheeks, the longing look in your eye – you wanted it. You wanted _me._ I knew that if I started touching you, you wouldn't want me to stop.

"Not yet." You huffed out a breath, and I could tell you didn't really want to say no.

"When you're ready."

The rest of our summer went like that – spending long, hot days walking around your neighborhood, eating ice cream at the diner, climbing your oak tree. You always laughed and squinted at me when I pushed you to do things you would never normally do – we climbed out on your roof one night, and you screamed so loud when your foot slipped I thought your neighbors would wake up and call the cops – but eventually you would give in. I had to boost you up over the fence into the Truman's backyard so we could go skinny dipping in their pool, but you did it.

We never got caught. I think that was part of the magic of that summer – we always did things we _knew_ were wrong, things we knew would get us in trouble if anyone ever found out. We climbed higher in the trees than your dads would want us to, we used sidewalk chalk and colored in other people's driveways while they were at work. We rode our bikes across town, we stayed out after curfew. Our parents would scold us, but we never got grounded.

And some nights, I would sneak out of my house and ride my bike the six blocks to yours, and then climb the lattice up to your window. You always left it cracked, as if you just always knew when I would come by. We never talked about it – we never planned it – but some nights, lying in my own bed, smelling my own sheets washed in our laundry soap, instead of yours, I would start to miss you. I'd miss the way your laugh tinkled and tickled at my chest, like birds fluttering. I'd miss your smell and the feeling of your hair on my face.

I'd climb in your window, quick as a cat, and shimmy through your window. Most of the nights you would sleep straight through it, until I was curled up in bed next to you, a leg thrown over your hip. I would bury my face in the dark, tangled curtain of your hair and fall asleep listening to you breathe.

But some nights I'd find you awake, your chocolate eyes glinting in the dark, and when I climbed into your bed, your hands would search out my body beneath my nightclothes, stroking along the skin and muscle and bone, as if to memorize it. And I'd let you touch me until every part of me was on fire, until your mouth and hands had turned me into a creature capable only of feeling – and every time, after it was over, I'd look at you and ask you to let me show you what it's like.

"Almost," You'd say, and it sounded like a promise.

I wanted to show you what it was like, because I loved you – and I could feel that you loved me when you touched me and kissed me the way that you did. I wanted to give you the same warm, full feeling you gave me. And I was curious, too – I wanted to see the way your face looked when you had no control. I wanted to hear your sounds, wanted to see what you felt like, what you smelled and tasted like. It was an ache inside of me, some days.

But I knew I couldn't pressure you – just like I knew I had to lie still and let you search every inch of me, and be patient, even when I felt like I was going to burn up from the intensity of waiting. I wish I had found the words to say to you all the reasons why I wanted to reciprocate; I wish I had thought to say – _Rachel, I love you, let me show you what it's like to be loved like this_. But I didn't. I didn't have them inside of me, yet, and didn't know how to say them.

It's something I've always regretted.

_but I come with a dream in my eyes tonight,__  
__and knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart—__  
__open to me!__  
__for I will show you the places Nobody knows,__  
__and, if you like,__  
__the perfect places of Sleep._

* * *

__if you're enjoying this fic, please let me know!

I think it's turning out rather grand


	4. Part 4

I remember many things about our childhood together, Rachel. Sometimes they're like a kaleidoscope in my mind – jewel-sharp images warped and crushed together, creating a mosaic of sights and sounds and emotions. Occasionally, I can look back and pluck a memory out, hold it up, examine it, and remember with perfect clarity what we went through. My entire life is flavored with the sound of your laughter and the image of your smile, and the way summer sunlight would dapple on your cheek through the boughs of oak leaves.

When you turned thirteen, your dads threw you a bat mitzvah, and of course you asked me to come. I had never been to temple with you, though you had come to church and church functions with me on occasion. I had never been inside of a synagogue, and I barely understood the difference or significance of us coming from different religious and racial backgrounds. The bat mitzvah was an eye opening experience for me – I got to see you interact with people who were not in our old ballet class or family. You introduced me, quickly, to some of the people who were there (and that you seemed embarrassed of), like Noah, Sarah, and Jake Puckerman. You introduced me to Tina, too, though I didn't need it – I had been going to school with Tina since sixth grade, but I never knew she was Jewish.

It was strange, Rachel. It was strange to watch you with your dads and your community, people I had never met. The service _was_ weird – but not too hard to understand, not too different. Yet the food and dancing, the singing, it was all somewhat peculiar. I didn't understand half of the things being said. Everyone talked too quickly and too loud, and I felt like a floppy, floundering fish. You tried to stay next to me, but you kept getting swept up in the excitement – and this was a day for you, so I didn't blame you. You can never resist the urge to shine, and everyone wanted to talk to you and look at you, and tell you things. I liked seeing this Rachel, the Rachel who was confident and who preened beneath the attention of everyone, including adults. It was hard to reconcile this Rachel with the girl I spent so much time with, the girl I tried so hard to convince of her own beauty and worth.

Entering into high school was almost the same thing, but in reverse.

Looking back now, I can see that. I can see how going to high school with me was a lot like me going to your bat mitzvah, and how things were so mangled and strange. You had never seen me in a school environment before – you didn't know anything about my behavior with a group of people you didn't know. I had friends at McKinley, some of which I had known as long, or longer, than you. People like Finn Hudson, a boy I went to kindergarten with, who was dopey and kind and tried to stick up for me when people called me _stupid._ He reminded me of you, a little bit, in that regard.

I tried to be mindful of you, but I got caught up – the same way that the excitement of your bat mitzvah drew you away from me, I was also pulled towards the tidal wave of exuberance that a first day of high school can bring. It was so exhilarating being among kids who were almost adults. It was disconcerting to be one of the youngest and shortest students, when I'd always been the tallest, even of the boys. I wore a skirt and a blouse; I looked pressed and pretty, and even though you wore a variation of the same thing – a plaid skirt with a sweater and a headband – I could tell you felt out of place. You kept looking at me with large, glittery, lost eyes, and every time I caught you staring after me it made my heart squeeze.

I could have done better. Every time I snatch this particular day out of the countless days we've spent together, and hold it up for review, the edges of it cut me – like a jagged piece of a broken mirror. Since then, the only feeling I have when I remember it is of regret, and it's the only emotion I can recall; though I know, at the time, I didn't think about it. I thought I would be able to soothe your awkwardness at lunch time, or in the art class we had together. But by the time afternoon classes rolled around, you were impatient with me, and you brushed me off. You didn't want to talk about it, so we sat side-by-side in silence while the instructor went over classroom rules, and I decided to drop it, just as you'd told me to do.

Things did get easier after that first day, or at least I thought. You always seemed just a little bit overwhelmed, a little bit out of place, but not so scared or uncertain as you did that first day. You tagged along with me to hang out with some of my old friends, like Finn, who had buddied up with the boy from your synagogue, Noah. But you were shy around them, and looked down, and wouldn't say much.

After school, sometimes we would go back to your house, and you would pull out our textbooks and help me struggle through English, math, and history. I helped you stretch and practice your plies, but I felt like things were different. I didn't know why, though. You didn't lean into me, panting and heaving, after a strenuous ballet set; you brushed aside my appreciative hand when I let it slip down your bare shoulder after you helped me puzzle out a particularly hard algebra equation. Sometimes you would throw me dark looks from beneath your eyelids, and they made me feel confused – but any time I asked you what was wrong, you ignored me.

It really wasn't normal of you to behave that way, Rachel. Usually you practically vibrate with the need to express and communicate – sometimes I'm stunned by the way words explode out of you, so quick and emotional. I kept expecting that to happen, especially in the early weeks, when I could tell that whatever was bothering you had settled beneath your skin, stretching it, filling you up with tension. You reminded me of an agitated rabbit – deceptively small and harmless, but with the ability to draw blood when cornered.

It made me sad in a strange, disconnected, unsettling way; and because I have never been particularly melancholy, I had no way of knowing why or how it happened – I just knew that looking at you caused a heaviness in me, where it used to only make me light and happy. I knew that something had changed between us (_again_), and you didn't laugh as often or as easily at things that had always amused you. I think that, for a while, we continued spending time together after school and on the weekends only because it was a habit, something we had been doing for years – and not because we both actually wanted to.

Finally, you told me that you wanted to join some clubs, and the look you gave me as you said this was desperate and pleading.

"What clubs?" I asked.

"It doesn't matter – _anything_. I want to make more friends," You said, your voice strained.

"Okay, Rachel," I agreed, because – even though neither one of us were – I wanted to make you happy.

I signed us both up for cheerleading, because I figured it would be easy enough, and the most popular girls did it.

You did not react the way I expected you to.

"For _cheerleading?_ Brittany!" Your eyes were huge and indignant. "I can't – I can't be a _cheerleader!_ I'd be a laughingstock!"

"Why?" I rubbed a finger over the tip of my nose. "You can dance, you're good with rhythm. Why not cheerleading?"

"Because – I just _can't!_" You shook your head. We were standing in the middle of the hallway, a few feet from the board with the sign-up sheets tacked to it. "I wanted to do something like the debate team, or the chess club!"

I shrugged. "Then sign us up for that."

"I will," You huffed, walking over to the board. I watched you delicately scrawl first your name – gold star sticker and all – and then mine, before you viciously scribbled out our names from the Cheerios sheet.

You stomped away, muttering. I watched you go, your hair a dark sheet swinging with your movements. After a moment, and almost as an afterthought, I put my name back on the Cheerios list.

* * *

"What's _that?"_ Your eyes were huge and accusing the first day you saw me in the uniform.

"Do you like it?" I smiled, tugging at the pleated skirt. I liked the way it twirled when I moved. I didn't like the sharp press of polyester against my skin, or how the WMHS across my chest made my boobs feel flat, but I did like the skirt. It still smelled new, which was kind of stinky.

You grimaced. "You look like every other faceless sheep in here – just a tall, pretty, _blonde_ cheerleader."

I knew you were trying to hurt my feelings, but I couldn't pinpoint how, or why. "Why are you mad?"

I could almost hear you gritting your teeth. "I thought we decided we weren't going to do cheerleading, Brittany."

"No," I replied carefully, "_You_ decided. I do want to do cheerleading, so.. I'm doing it."

The expression on your face was a mixture of mild shock and anger. In hindsight, I realize that you were surprised that I'd do anything you hadn't explicitly condoned – but at the time, I was just even more confused.

"Don't be mad," I stepped forward, my fingers circling your wrist. Your eyebrows wrinkled, and I could sense that you were battling with the desire to pull closer or dart away. We hadn't been occupying the same space so intimately lately, and it was hard for you at first. I ran my thumb along the little tendons on the inside of your wrist, trying to liquefy the tension there. "I can still do debate team and chess club, Rachel. We can join other clubs, too."

I was taken aback by how your lips trembled before you pressed them together, that your eyes went glassy before you blinked. Your arm flexed, and then you slid until your hand was cupped inside of mine. "I miss you," You said, simply.

"I'm right here." I had never gone anywhere, Rachel.

"It doesn't – it doesn't feel like _you._" You frowned, your eyes scanning the hallway. Morning classes would be starting soon. "Sometimes I don't recognize you, here."

I didn't know what you meant. I understand, now, a little bit about what baffled you – the fact that, at school, you weren't the focus of all of my attention, like it had always been between us. At school, I had other friends, some of which I valued just as much as you. I think it's always been hard for you to grasp that concept – because, for you, there was only ever me.

I have a big heart, Rachel, and I am capable of loving many people at once. I think you often forgot that, because for you – you were careful when opening yourself, always timid and hesitant to let anyone else see what you kept tucked inside.

"I'm the same," I said, because I didn't know yet about perspective, or perception; and I had only learned – even after so many years (I was still so young, myself) – a very small amount about the things you say and what you mean when you say them. It was always just an act of interpretation, and though I'm good at it, sometimes my own feelings interfere with the intuitive ability I have.

You sighed. I could tell the fight had drained out of you – you seemed to collapse in on yourself, without moving at all. "Will you audition for the school play with me?"

"Yes." I didn't know how to act, and I didn't want to, but I'd help paint cutouts of trees and teach choreography, if it was needed.

"I'll see you in art." You released me with a gentle squeeze of our hands. I watched you go, and couldn't figure out what had happened to scramble the communication between us. I had always been the sort of person who doesn't pick up the frequencies of other people – it takes a special sort of channel to reach me. And though, through the years, there had been static and interruption between us, for the most part we had had a clear signal. I don't know if it's because we're just naturally suited to each other – or because we were both so stubborn about it that we refused to give up.

I worried, though, in that hallway, with your back receding from me, that somehow one of us – or both of us – had thrown in the towel, finally.

Is it possible to _choose_ to stop trying to hear someone, after knowing them for seven years? Is it possible to stop trying to speak to them in a way that they can understand?

* * *

I had always been a casually active person, with dance lessons and gymnastics and a lifetime of bicycling under my belt. But I was nowhere near prepared for the kind of brutal physical torture that would become Cheerios practice – parts of my body hurt that I didn't even know _could_ hurt. I left, after every single day, feeling weak, and wobbly, and exhausted; I could barely see, or breathe, or think.

I didn't need to think in order to notice Quinn. She was like a bolt of lightning; suddenly there – brilliant and electric. I know that you hate it when I talk too much about her, Rachel, but Quinn was just – she was one of the most beautiful people I've ever seen, and I don't think it has to do with her hair or her eyes or her nose, like you do. Even though she didn't _seem_ very beautiful in any other way, especially to you. We will never agree about Quinn, and that's all right.

Quinn noticed me, too. I felt a tiny twist in my stomach every time our eyes met; and unlike most people, Quinn didn't look away the second she realized we were staring at each other. In fact, she kept her gaze steady, and I could almost feel her watching me. It made me curious in a way that almost no one else ever has – and I could sense a question in Quinn, even though we had never spoken a word to each other. I didn't understand the question, or what the answer could possibly be, but I knew that there was one, somehow.

I didn't know how to talk to her, which was kind of silly. I've always been the sort of person who can walk up to anyone and begin a conversation. But the weight of Quinn's eyes made my tongue feel thick and my head feel loose, and sometimes when I caught her staring, my heart would kick up in my chest.

We spent weeks dancing around each other in Cheerios practice, and I thought that if we ever would have figured out how to talk to one another, it would be because of that – and I was wrong.

Instead, it was on an afternoon where you and I were working on the school play. They cast you as Gertie in _Oklahoma_, and it upset you; they cast me as tree-painter, and I was content. I didn't pay a lot of attention during rehearsals, because I listened to music and painted scenery while everyone else was singing, dancing, and yelling. Sometimes I would dance, too – sometimes I would slide across the floor on a cardboard box and pretend to surf, slinging paint everywhere. The drama teacher, Mr. Ryerson, was one of the few people who _didn't_ get angry about it. In fact, he thought it showed a particular "artistic flare" and scolded anyone who yelled at me for getting paint on them. Whoops. You would sometimes catch me doing it, and whenever I saw the expression on your face, it was always a mixture of amusement and disdain; as if you couldn't decide whether to think I was funny, or hopeless.

The first time I actually talked to Quinn, it was because she was watching me – like you often did – and I didn't know it. I was listening to a song on my iPod that made me think of the complicated dance moves my instructor put us through every week, and somehow the red side of the barn had white splatters on it – my brush went in a wide arc, and the next thing I knew, I heard a muffled, annoyed gasp.

I yanked one of my earbuds out of my ear, quickly, and turned, my eyes round. I hated it any time I got an innocent bystander with paint, even if Mr. Ryerson wouldn't let them be mad at me – but the sight of Quinn with paint all over her made my jaw drop, followed a moment later by the paint brush clattering to the ground.

"Oh my gosh!" I rushed forward, forgetting the fact that this was the girl who had such a hold on me – and forgetting, too, that my hands were a smeared mess of greens, reds, browns, and whites; by trying to wipe the paint away from her face, I was only making it worse. "I'm so sorry!"

"It's okay," Quinn said, but I could tell she was upset. Her eyes flashed in my direction and caught the gleam of the overhead lights. I could tell, this close, that they were speckled, like the side of a river stone; they were green and black and gold, and impossible, it felt like, to me. Impossible. I stopped what I was doing and stared, and I couldn't remember how to breathe or think because of her _eyes_ – they reminded me of fairies, and magic, and the sort of wonderlands that I had been told, time and time again, weren't real.

"What?" Quinn's tone was amused when she realized I was motionless. Her lips quirked in the most subtle of smiles, and there was something about it that reminded me of a cat - quick and confident, and so sure. I smiled back without realizing it, and her eyes changed subtly; something inside of them shifted, and it caused a warmth to bloom in my chest and pump outwards, buzzing, tingling my fingertips and cheeks and ears.

"Help me wash this off?" Quinn asked, her voice a whisper. It sent goosebumps skittering along my skin. I nodded, suddenly breathless, and Quinn's smile grew.

I followed her through the corridor, which was mostly empty by this time in the afternoon. She was making a beeline for the Cheerios locker room, and as every second passed, my heart kicked more fitfully behind my ribs, strangling my lungs, making my cheeks flushed. By the time we entered it, I was gnawing on my lips, and when she turned to face me, I could see that her face was red, too.

"Pretty girl," I murmured. It was a thought running through my mind, and it slipped out – it caused her to grin with her whole face, and her eyes to go lidded.

"You aren't so bad yourself," She stepped closer to me and cocked her head back, smirking.

I cupped the back of her neck without thinking, and didn't care that her hair stuck to all of the paint. "I'm going to kiss you," I whispered, and Quinn tilted her jaw. It felt a little bit like time stood still. I waited a heartbeat to see if she would object – but I could feel the tiny muscles in her neck shifting, and the look on her face was still smug. So I slipped even closer, and pressed my free hand to her hip, and then laid my lips against hers.

She was still grinning while we kissed, and I felt one of her hands secure me around the waist, while the other pressed against the heat in my cheek. Having her here, so close to me, made my body twist and tangle and knock together clumsily – I could hear the blood swimming in my ears, and feel how hot and taut my skin was, and how my lungs struggled to breathe. Everything happened both too fast and excruciatingly slow. I couldn't help the way a tiny moan squeezed out of me when her tongue slipped over my bottom lip, and on my quick inhale, she pushed it inside.

Kissing Quinn was a little bit like kissing fire – bright and intense, hot, almost painful; though it was subtle and contained, too. It was this strange contradiction that had me squeezing her closer to me, and moving my tongue over hers, and then into her mouth. I liked the stinging mystery of her, and the way she smelled like a field of wildflowers beneath the plastic-y paint scent.

We kissed like that for several long moments, until my lips were swollen, and my heart beat had taken up residence somewhere below my navel. I tugged my face away from Quinn's, and I could hear her breathing, now; in short, breathy pants. Her chest rose and fell quickly, and the look on her face was almost disbelieving – she scanned my features with her eyes, her lips pressed together.

"You have paint on your face, now," Quinn said quietly.

I scrunched my eyebrows and lips, and realized it was true. It made me smile.

"Let's take a shower," Quinn said, and it my heart dropped.

"Are you sure?" I asked. I rubbed my thumb over the base of her neck, and she slid her hand down to rest on my shoulder.

"Yes," Quinn said.

I let her put her hand in mine and tug me behind her, through the empty locker room. It smelled like chlorine and water and cement. She dug out a pair of towels from the towel closet, and then pulled us both into one shower stall. She didn't look at me as she turned the knobs, adjusting the water, but she turned back around when the steam started to fill the room.

It was even harder to breathe the thick air, especially with Quinn watching me. She carefully peeled her shirt over her head, and my eyes widened at the sight of her in just a bra. It was white, and plain, but it still excited me – so much that I stopped her hands from pushing her skirt down by covering them with my own. I looked at her, for just a moment, and she watched me with dark, guarded eyes. She let me tug her skirt, revealing her underwear, and it made my breath hitch. She was smiling more easily at me when I looked at her face again, and she almost playfully yanked up the hem of my shirt.

In a moment, we were both naked, and Quinn didn't wait before she pressed her body against mine. I had never been so close to someone with no clothing between us – even you. Even when you were making love to me, there were always layers of pajamas and underwear as a barrier between our bodies, and so this with Quinn was new and exciting, exhilarating, even. It made my stomach tie in tight, tense knots; my hands skimmed over her bare back tentatively, disbelieving.

Quinn bit at my lips, and her touch wasn't gentle or hesitant – her palms pressed hard against my lower back, and then gripped on my hips. It made me gasp and moan into her mouth, and she seemed greedy for these noises – she murmured, a humming in the back of her throat, and her fingers squeezed me even tighter. I could tell there would be bruises there, but I didn't care. It filled me up with a hot urgency, and I shifted until my hands were fastened on her hips as well. I moved us both beneath the spray of the water, and grinned when she gasped at the sudden shock of warm water against her.

I scraped my teeth along the line of her neck, and she groaned, her body shifting almost incessantly. It didn't take long for my hands and fingers to brush along the curves and contours of her body, along the rigid line of her bones beneath her skin, over the muscles – she shivered and panted in turn at every new touch, and her hands tugged and tugged at me, while her hips rolled, bumping against mine. All of her movements were impatient and demanding – and whenever I glimpsed her face, her eyebrows were knit, her lip between her teeth, as if she were caught up in a struggle. It was nothing like any of the times I had kissed or touched you, Rachel. Nothing. Quinn was hot and closed up and full of sharp insistence – she _wanted_ me in a way I wasn't familiar with. She wasn't afraid to hurt me – in fact, she didn't seem to care if she did, squeezing and jerking my body as heedlessly as she could.

She grunted when my hand slipped between our bodies and cupped her between the legs. The noise was grateful, but still hungry; and she moaned when my fingers slipped inside of her. I had never done this to anyone – I had thought it would be with you, the first time – and I was in awe over the slick heat of it, the stickiness, the impossible way that it was both soft and strong all at once. I could feel the pulse of Quinn's life when I was inside of her, the rhythm of her body, and she jutted her hips against my hand in time with it. I held her low on her back, and pressed her against the tile wall, while my fingers shifted and slid at a stilted pace. At every moment, Quinn grew more desperate – I felt the sharp bite of her nails in my skin, and she writhed and thrashed against me. I sped up – watching her face and her body, a little stunned by the way she didn't even look like herself anymore.

The spray from the water made Quinn's hair darker, a golden brown, and her face was wrinkled and pink – I could see her chest rising and falling with the effort of breathing. I had no idea what was happening, except that my fingers were following the pace that Quinn set, before she cried out – loudly – and seized, her whole body shuddering into stillness for one long, pulsating moment, and then she spasmed, rocking and jerking against me. I could feel her insides quaking, and it mystified me; I had no idea what it was like to experience an orgasm from this side of it.

When it was over, her muscles relaxed, and her face smoothed out. She was back to looking like the pretty girl I had admired for so many weeks. I kissed her cheek, and then her forehead, and her eyelids fluttered open. She smiled at me, dimly, before she moved until my hand fell away from her.

"Have you ever done that before?" Her voice was thick and low, and it made my stomach clench.

"No," I said, and realized my own mouth was dry.

Her eyes lit up, and her grin grew wider – she laughed, a tiny sound. "I'm going to teach you something."

She pressed with both of her hands on my shoulders, until I got the impression that she wanted me to drop to my knees – and when I did, I was eye level with her navel, and it made my heart race. I had never been like this – never been so close, so intimate. Everything inside of my body throbbed with anticipation and a bit of trepidation, but I didn't care; I pressed my hands to the meat of her hips to steady her, and ducked my head, slipping my tongue out along her skin.

She moaned, rocking, and spread her legs. I could feel her fingers tighten in my hair, while her other hand pressed against mine on her hip, as if she had to have something to hold on to. I was curious of the way it tasted and smelled, and even when my tongue was sliding through the most secret parts of Quinn, a corner of my mind was on you – I remembered you doing this to me, during one of those hot, humid summer nights that I ghosted into your bedroom after dark. I remembered the way I wanted so desperately to pin you down and find out all of your secrets, too. But I had Quinn – and Quinn was gorgeous, with her bedtime-story eyes, and she was eager and lithe and wet. I wanted her, too, so I let myself forget you, for a little while.

With Quinn's fingers fisted in my hair, and my tongue inside of her, I couldn't pay attention to anything else – except the abrupt tugging on my scalp, and the way she moaned and rocked into my mouth – so it was a complete shock to me when she jerked, nearly ripping my head away from her. I was disoriented – the sound of the shower hitting the drain had numbed my ears, and my gaze was blurry and unfocused.

"What are you doing here, you little creep?" Quinn's voice was low and acidic, and it reminded me of the way a snake might sound if it could talk. All I could see was a curtain of water – I became aware of how much my knees hurt from direct contact with the tile beneath - but I figured that Quinn was addressing someone on the other side of the curtain.

"Are you going to just _stand_ there? Beat it, you pervert!" Quinn growled. I heard a faint rustling noise that must have been the shower curtain falling back into place.

Quinn shifted, impatiently, and she tried to bring my face back closer to her. "Who was that?" I asked, tilting my head back.

"Nobody," Quinn grunted. "She shouldn't even be in this locker room."

For a long beat, I paused, thinking. I could tell Quinn had already forgotten our interruption and wanted me to finish what I started – but I was thinking, thinking, and I thought it might have been you, Rachel. I thought it could have been you, searching for me, trying to figure out where I was. We were supposed to ride home together after you were done rehearsing, so.. I knew it could have been you.

I let the thought go, though, because Quinn was whining, now, and her hips were moving, and I could tell that she wanted me. Quinn wanted me, and it made me feel drunk with arousal, so I forgot about you.

I think about that moment a lot, Rachel. It always comes back to that moment, right there, when I made the decision to forget you. If I hadn't – if I had gotten up, instead, and come after you, would it have made a difference? Or was the damage already done when you pulled back that shower curtain and saw me with my head between Quinn's legs?

I don't know. I'll never get to know, either, because I didn't make the choice to stop – I made the choice to stay. When Quinn was done, we stayed even longer, because she wanted to make sure that I was satisfied, too.

By the time we left, my skin was white and wrinkled, my hair and body scrubbed clean by relentless water. My knees were red, but my body felt relaxed and liquid and golden, so I didn't mind.

I didn't think about you again until late that night, when I was already in my pajamas and getting ready for bed. I remembered in a flash that I was supposed to ride home with you – I remembered the play, and the rehearsal, and everything. I checked my phone, but there were no messages from you. When I called, it went straight to voice mail.

I tried to rationalize it, by thinking you were already asleep – but dread had formed a cold ball in the pit of my stomach, and I just knew better.

I knew that there was something very wrong.

I didn't know, then, that things would never be quite right again. Not really.

_you have played,_  
_(I think)_  
_and broke the toys you were fondest of,_  
_and are a little tired now;_  
_tired of things that break, and—_  
_just tired._  
_so am I._


	5. Part 5

**Trigger warning for rape/non-consensual sex.**

* * *

I took you for granted.

I didn't begin to comprehend that for months – and when I finally did, it made me feel hollow and weak, the way a baby bird trembles and shudders in the wind. I was too naïve to understand what had happened between us until years had passed, and when I finally did, it felt as though my heart was made of shattered glass, and every brittle edge sliced a wound in my chest.

We didn't speak again for half a year.

It was spring before I worked up the nerve to approach you – and that was only because I had learned to wash the look of the wound in your eyes out of my memory. I couldn't muster up the strength to talk to you in the days following what happened, and then the days turned to weeks – you never sought me out, never tried to contact me, so I took your lead. It was cowardly. You deserved an apology, if nothing else. There are many things I would have changed about our time together, Rachel, but this is one of the things I wish I could change very much.

I didn't prepare myself for it, it just sort of happened; by this time, you weren't so much like a throbbing wound in my ribcage, more like a dull ache behind my eyes – I never forgot about you, quite, but I could think around you, I could function around you, and after a time, the norm became rote for me – and I didn't always turn for you when doing tasks we had always done together.

I ran into you on the quad, before Cheerios practice. You were carrying a case for an instrument and it startled me because, even though we didn't speak, I kept a careful eye on you just the same – and I didn't know you had joined the band.

Your bangs were longer, and they fell into your eyes in a way that was unkempt and messy. Not at all like you – you're rigidly neat, if nothing else. Your clothes were clean, as always, and even with the distance between us I could smell the laundry soap on you; that scent that is mostly chemicals, but still gave me a sense of peace and relaxation – but they weren't as stridently pressed, either. It made a frown line etch itself between my eyebrows to see you like this, in a hurried daze.

"Rachel?"

It felt both strange and familiar to say your name aloud, and for a brief moment I saw the light come into your eyes (it wasn't just recognition – it was hope, and longing, and remembering) before you closed up, your entire person going rigid and tense. I could have sighed if I hadn't been a bundle of nerves. You clutched the instrument case impatiently, your gaze flicking from one edge of your vision to the next, almost in an effort to avoid looking directly at me.

It sent a fresh wave of pain through me, and I swallowed.

"How have you been?"

You shrugged. You didn't move, precisely, and I felt encouraged by the fact that you didn't push past me or walk away – though you seemed impatient and uncomfortable, you _stayed_, and it made my insides tremble. I had to squeeze my fingers into the meat of my palms to stop them from shaking, to fight back the urge to reach out and touch you –

"I miss you," I whispered before I knew what I was doing.

Your eyes snapped into focus, then, and I felt paralyzed by the weight of them; their color, when we were young, were a sweet and steady brown – like Easter candy – but as we aged, so did they, and looking at them then, I was struck by the difference in the hue, how it had changed from solid to something permeable, like mahogany shadows; I was reminded abruptly of blood on glossy wood tables, of coffee with strawberry syrup. It startled me. I was too struck by the intensity of them to properly hear you when you said –

"I can't do this, Brittany."

Your voice was low and terse, but it felt good to hear you speak, even if I didn't absorb the words at first. I pulled my bottom lip into my mouth and sucked in a breath, scanning your face, trying to take you in all at once – I could sense that you would leave, and I yearned to pull you close, to just _stop_, for a moment, and be the people that we used to be.

"I'm sorry," I breathed in a rush.

You flinched, your body recoiling, and I instinctively reached out – but my fingers curled on air, stopped mid-gesture by the way you withdrew from me. I never touched you, Rachel, but it felt like I was burned, anyhow.

"No," you jerked your head, shaking it violently, and deliberately stepped around me.

I didn't watch you go, but I felt you leave. It was as if some hook embedded deep inside of me – caught somewhere around the base of my spine – was tugging and tugging, ripping slowly out. It was a jagged, searing pain, the expulsion of something that had always been vital and important and _loved._

I didn't cry, though I wanted to. I swallowed and breathed, reminding myself that the female body is designed to withstand the intolerable – and that I would be fine, with time.

We hadn't said a word to each other in six months, but that exchange – so few words, such a brief time – it felt more like a final _goodbye_ than all the silence between us ever could.

* * *

I didn't make a conscious decision to stop paying attention to you, but it happened by degrees. I think it was by instinct – I had to force myself to stop looking for you in the hallways, to not hear your voice coming from the choir room. It was hard to do for the remainder of that year, but I did it.

I buried myself in the Cheerios to fight off the loneliness. It worked. I grew close to Quinn, whose icy smile and slanted eyes reminded me of a vixen, and sometimes her kisses stole my breath away. She introduced me to Santana Lopez, a girl so full of passion and anger that I imagined her walking around with an electricity storm surrounding her – snapping and cracking, igniting the air. I found her beautiful and frightening and dangerous, and after a time, we became uneasy friends. She seemed impatient with me – her eyes were always quick and furious, glancing from one subject to the next, dismissive; and she never could bear to look at me for very long.

Quinn worked to smooth the place between us, because she seemed intent on us becoming part of the elite, and Santana – for some unnamed reason – acquiesced to her wishes. I never knew that I was a part of the 'popular' crowd until Quinn told me so. It proved to be true when I was asked to prom by a senior that year.

Quinn and Santana got dates, too, so I accepted. He was a big football player – burly, thick, the kind of guy that always made me wrinkle my nose. At that age, I didn't have a reason or a desire to name the thing inside of me that drew me to women more than men, but that was the very first time I remember being confronted by it. His name was Jason, and he smelled weird. His face was scratchy and his hands were rough, and the whole time we danced, I wished it was you.

Quinn looked adequately annoyed by her date, too, and Santana glared at hers. He seemed too afraid to touch her. In the end, I slipped away from Jason while he was pouring vodka in the fruit punch, and I convinced Santana and Quinn to steal away with me.

"Yuck," Santana said, wiping a layer of sweat from her cheekbones the second we let the gym doors clatter behind us. "It smells like pheromones and Axe body spray in there."

"I think it was lovely," Quinn's voice was always so quiet in comparison to Santana's. Her smile was almost wistful.

"The stink of adolescence and sexual tension? Okay."

Quinn's lips thinned. "Prom. It was beautiful."

Santana's eyebrows rose on her forehead, but she was too busy studying her phone to reply. The three of us walked with our high heels dangling from our fingers down the sidewalk.

"I liked the lights and the music," I said, shrugging. "But Jason can't dance."

Quinn smiled one of her gentle, fond smiles at me – "Compared to you, Brittany, nobody can dance."

Santana glanced up at that, her dark eyes calculating, bouncing between Quinn and I. I always wondered if Quinn ever told Santana about the nights we spent together. It made me think about the two of them sweating together in the dark, and for some reason, that made my insides twist and boil. I swallowed, shaking the thought away, and clasped Quinn's hand loosely. She smiled tolerantly as I swung it between us.

"Where are we going?" Santana groused. "I'm getting gravel embedded in my toes."

"I could call my dad to pick us up," Quinn tipped her head back to look at the sky.

"We could go to the park," I said. The night felt cool and damp and thick, like the wind had rain behind it, and I loved the way it smelled. I wasn't quite ready to be ushered home, to fall asleep in a bed that still felt too big for just me.

"And do what?" Santana asked.

I shrugged again.

Quinn let the moment pass before she nodded. "Yeah, let's go."

I'm sure we made a sight, strolling down the dark neighborhood streets barefooted. But we kept our hands linked, and even Santana laughed at the way I would jog ahead, pulling them behind me, in a jerky, swaying rhythm. By the time we made it to the park, we were all breathless, but I felt light and happy as I hadn't in a long time. It made me smile to realize it – though I was sad, too, to be missing you.

Santana dug through her tiny clutch purse until she pulled out a pint of tequila. It made my eyes grow big, because I'd heard enough about alcohol to be curious about it – but to that point, the most I'd ever had was a sip of wine or beer. Santana smirked, all smug confidence, at the narrow look Quinn threw her.

"What else are we gonna do here, anyhow?"

"I thought we would swing." I gestured to the structure, chains clinking in the breeze.

A pause. "We can do that, too."

_Wood chips just aren't the same as sand._ You were the first person to tell me that, back when we both first noticed that the parks were slowly replacing all of the sand with tiny pieces of wood. We were too big, then, to really play on them, but it made us sad all the same. I remembered your voice around those words while we tip-toed delicately over to sit in the swings.

Santana took a swallow of tequila and didn't grimace, but she did grin hugely at Quinn when she passed the bottle to her. Quinn wrinkled her nose, sniffed it, and shook her head. "No way."

"Don't be such a little girl, Fabray. Just try it."

Quinn shook her head again, but then almost immediately took a sip. Her lips peeled back, exposing her teeth, and she made a noise in the back of her throat.

"That is revolting."

"It'll grow hair on your chest." Santana wiggled her eyebrows.

Quinn rolled her eyes.

"Let Princess Buttercup over there have a try."

I was a little nervous when Quinn handed me the bottle. It didn't look like anything except water – but I could smell it, even without bringing it close to my face. I swallowed before I put it to my lips, and then with a deep breath I filled my mouth – and almost spat it back out again. With a choked groan, I pushed it past my throat, noting the way it made my whole face feel like it was on fire. I panted, pulling in air to soothe the burn, but that seemed to only make it worse. I handed the bottle back to Quinn with a vehement headshake. "Gross."

Santana sputtered out a laugh, and even Quinn was grinning in the dark. She took a small, delicate sip, before passing it back to Santana.

Santana gulped without pulling a face, and I was fascinated by it. I didn't understand how anyone could do that – tequila tasted like acid and electricity mixed together, sharp and strong and painful. Even now I can barely tolerate it. Santana swallowed it without a wince, and even Quinn seemed to grow accustomed to it after a time.

It didn't matter how loose or warm the alcohol made me, my face never stopped its bitter wince after every drink. I was amazed at the way it changed my friends – Santana's laugh, which had always been reserved, cold, and derisive before, became loud and giddy and genuine; Quinn's smiles, usually so fleeting and reserved, turned into wide open-mouthed grins, and I was delighted. We stumbled around that playground for hours, until the silver tequila finally vanished, and we wobbled half a block before Santana gave in and called her mom.

Santana's mother didn't seem surprised to find us drunk and sloppy, and though her eyes – the same ones Santana wore - were creased with worry, she didn't scold us the way I imagined a parent would. I couldn't conceive of my mother reacting with such calm, and Quinn slurred – during the grainy passage from the park to Santana's house – "my dad would put me in a boarding school if he ever saw me like this."

The three of us piled together in the backseat of Mrs. Lopez's Buick, the car filled with the quiet lull of late night radio – jazzy Frank Sinatra (I can't hear _All of Me_ without remembering that night) – and the stench of us; grass, spring air, cheap liquor, and body spray. Quinn kept her hands wrapped around both of ours, respectively, and I stared at the wild tangle of our fingers in her lap with hazy eyes. Santana was subdued, but she rested her head on Quinn's shoulder, and her face was more relaxed and open than I'd ever seen it before. It made me realize that I was beginning to love her, in a way.

The way Quinn held onto us was almost desperate, the grip of a drowning man searching for buoyancy. All these years later, I still remember the texture of her skin – deceptively soft – and the feeling of her bones, hard and brittle, crunching against mine.

Santana's room was smaller and more cramped than I imagined it would be, with black walls and splashes of red everywhere. It made me vaguely uncomfortable. The three of us made a mess out of undressing, ripping lace and satin and dripping glitter everywhere. By the time we finally collapsed into her bed, the sky outside was lightening, and I could hear the faint chirping of birds.

I expected to drop immediately into sleep because I was exhausted – but just as I was on the brink of it, I heard Santana whispering, and something about her words snagged my attention. I kept my eyes closed, though, when I realized it was about me.

"Why is she even here, Quinn?"

Quinn was quiet, her voice hoarse and dull, as if she were too heavy to move. "I like her."

I made myself continue breathing as steadily as possible.

"Why?" Santana sounded almost wounded, and I wished that I could see her face.

"She's kind, Santana. She's funny."

"You like her legs," it was an accusation.

Quinn was silent for a long moment, and I jumped despite myself when I felt her fingers stroke down the length of my hair. "Yes," she answered simply.

Santana shifted almost violently in the bed, and I could feel Quinn reaching over to her, tugging at her. Their movements jostled me, and I fought to keep my eyelids from fluttering.

"Santana," Quinn said her name with such urgency – even at a whisper. "I can like another girl's legs. I can like her _everything._ It doesn't mean that I like you less."

Santana made a strangled sound.

"Don't cry," Quinn murmured.

"It's the tequila," Santana said around a sob. It made me hurt – and I knew, then, that I definitely did love Santana. "It always does this."

"I know." Quinn was quiet, and didn't say the next thing for such a long time that I thought she had fallen asleep. "Don't be jealous of Brittany. She's a good person. She's good to have around."

"How good?" Santana couldn't hide the spite in her voice. "Good enough for _you?"_ I imagined I could hear the tears rolling down her cheeks.

"Don't be cruel."

Santana's laugh was ironic. "That's rich, Fabray."

Quinn sighed, and I wondered about their secrets – I wondered what exactly was hiding beneath the surface of them, what was causing such pain and anguish between them. I knew it wasn't my business. I barely knew Santana, and Quinn was still mostly a mystery to me; I realized that they had a past, just as I did with you, and that somehow our lives had collided to create this mess.

"She's my friend. I like her." Quinn was harder, now, than she had been before. The sympathy had drained out of her. "You will like her, too, if you give her a chance."

Santana didn't say another word, but the mattress shook with the force of her sobs. It was silent, desperate crying, and the instant stretched out so long and painfully that_ I_ was tempted to reach over Quinn and console her – it broke my heart to feel someone's palpable grief and not be able to comfort them.

Finally, Quinn rolled away from me and close to Santana, and I let out a relieved breath when Santana turned to bury her face against Quinn's neck.

"Don't leave me," Santana's whisper was hoarse.

"Shh. Go to sleep."

"I love you," Santana insisted.

Quinn shook her head. "You're drunk, Santana."

"No," Santana's voice was watery. "Yes. I am. But –"

"But nothing. You're drunk, go to sleep."

She did, without more argument. I didn't know it was possible to have such a bruised heart for another person – I felt even more guilty for the time I spent with Quinn, not only at your expense, but at Santana's, too. I fell asleep with water trapped behind my eyelids, struggling to understand how something could be so beautiful and broken and damaged all at once, and how that thing could be both me and not-me at the same time, and that if that was what growing up felt like, I would just rather not do it.

* * *

Things didn't change overnight between Santana and me. I kept a careful eye on her and Quinn and how they interacted – their deliberate dance around each other in Cheerios, the way they always seemed a united front to everyone else, but were disconcertingly at odds between themselves. I wanted to help them. I wanted to help us. I didn't know how.

You finished out our freshmen year as part of band, you played the flute. I saw you a few times with Mr. Ryerson and some other kids, and I hoped you were happy. You didn't seem like it. You squinted in disgust at Jacob Ben Israel, and seemed to only mildly tolerate the kid in the wheelchair.

Quinn asked me to go to cheerleading camp with her for six weeks starting in June. I wanted to say no, but only because I half expected that the summer would bring you to me – that you'd show up on my doorstep with shiny, polished shoes, or you'd call me and beg me to help you with a ballet move. It was a futile hope, though, and I think that part of me understood that; so ultimately, I said yes, and Quinn rewarded me with her big grin, the kind that showed all of her teeth.

Santana came along too, and even as her attitude towards me remained sullen and angry, I found myself loving her a little more each day – the fact that she had a Gucci suitcase, that she wore sunglasses and Chanel perfume to morning practice, the way she would file her nails with boredom during seminars about balance and mind-body connection. Quinn soaked up everything eagerly, and didn't let Santana's quips bother her. I loved her for that, too.

I loved them both for different reasons; I loved them apart, and I loved them together, and I wanted them to be happy.

We slept in a cabin together, with Santana on the bunk above Quinn's, and my own just next to hers. I knew that Santana did that to make us uncomfortable with the idea of getting intimate. She didn't have to – I couldn't even think about Quinn's naked body without hearing Santana's sad, brittle sobs in the early dawn.

Quinn didn't initiate anything between us, and I hoped it was for Santana. I hoped that they learned how to work around whatever it was that caused them both such complex pain.

After cheer camp was over, I spent the rest of the summer in my room, painting my nails and flipping through the mindless reality shows on MTV, and missing you.

* * *

Sophomore year was different. I felt older – and I _was_ older, by the way I was quickly outgrowing all of my clothes.

"You're going to be so tall," my mother said, when I made her take me shopping at Charlotte Russe. "You can thank your father for that."

I can thank my father for my feet and my ears, too, my mother always told me.

"We don't even have to try out this year," Quinn told me on the second day of school. I was still buzzing from the excitement of it – she slid her arm through my elbow and guided me down the rows of lockers. "I talked to Coach Sylvester, she wants all three of us."

"That's great." I smiled because Quinn was so obviously pleased. "Is Santana happy?"

Quinn made a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat. "Is she ever?"

I smiled weakly. I didn't know how to answer.

"I'll see you in English."

We hardly ever talked about Santana between ourselves, but I never stopped thinking about her. I wondered if it was the same for Quinn.

I knew that it must be, because I never stopped thinking about you, either.

I didn't see you at all during the first week of school, and I thought it was because you might have transferred out of the district. I was extraordinarily saddened by that possibility, but also somewhat relieved – it might be easier to face the day knowing there was no chance to run into you. When I saw you at the school assembly with an unlikely group of kids doing a performance, it made me feel – strange. I was happy to see you, happy to see you doing something you enjoyed; but I felt empty because I knew nothing about it.

I didn't know anything about you, anymore. It was a harsh realization.

Quinn was upset about this assembly – she didn't like the idea of Finn hanging out in a club like that. I didn't understand why. Quinn had never even mentioned Finn to me, and I'm friendly enough with him that I wave hello during lunch, and Quinn knew that. Quinn knew we were friends. I'm still a little confused about it, even to this day, even though she's tried to explain it to me in the years since.

I had a harder time in school without you. I had to spend more and more time doing my homework, and the stress of failing grades made me morose and unenthusiastic. I didn't pay enough attention to things outside myself – I was tired a lot of the time, with Cheerios and dance practice and dealing with English and math assignments I didn't understand.

During the first quarter, I was put on academic probation, and my spot on the Cheerios was threatened. I felt helpless and frustrated – and, surprisingly, the person who came to my aid was Santana.

"I'm not doing this for you," Santana reassured me when I expressed my confusion. "I'm doing it for her."

I didn't need to ask which _her._ She meant Quinn. For whatever reason, Santana was willing to help me bring my grades up and stay on the squad, because she knew it was what Quinn would have wanted.

Santana was far from patient or kind as a tutor. She was brusque and blunt and she occasionally called me an idiot, but it did help. We spent a lot of long hours alone together in the library – she would scoff and roll her eyes at every question I asked, barely containing her annoyance. I didn't mind. By this point, I knew that I was pretty much useless with average academics, and I was used to people thinking I'm stupid. I had good friends who always reassured me otherwise (people like Finn and Tina and _you_) and I dealt with it.

Sometimes, Santana would let it slip that she wasn't as cold and cruel as she pretended to be, and it made a sweetness fill up within me. Once, she was running through geometry equations, her thumbnail tracing the lines in the textbook. She spoke with calm clarity, her words easy and slow. We sat close enough together that I could smell the scent of her shampoo, and her skin was warm against me – her lipgloss was pink and sticky, and I paid more attention to her lips moving than to math.

I watched her scrawl an equation out with her left hand, the writing neat and compact, and it made me grin. I was only half-thinking about geometry when she handed me the pen – and I didn't struggle through it like I usually did, I just wrote the answer down.

She gasped and gave a happy shake, bumping my shoulder with her own. "See! You got it!"

I nodded and she laughed. "Progress, finally."

I wanted to kiss her.

I think she could tell – because in a moment her gaze sharpened, her eyes narrowed, and she held her breath. I heard a faint buzzing in my ears, and I almost did it; but the heavy expectation in the air made me almost hyper-aware of it, and I remembered Santana crying in her bed.

"Thank you for helping me," I murmured, still somewhat entranced, and so, so close to her face.

Santana swallowed. "You're welcome."

That wasn't the last time we would get caught in moments like that. Often, if Santana and I stood too close, the air between us would grow thick and weighted, and her eyes would bore into mine with a kind of heavy resonance – her lips would part, just slightly, as if in expectation. It always made my heart beat painfully through my entire body, throbbing in my fingertips and all of my limbs, my lungs constricted and aching. It was hard to concentrate when I was so close to her, and for her – I think she was surprised by it, honestly. Her eyebrows wore this slightly puzzled crease whenever it happened, and she seemed dazed whenever it finally broke. I found any excuse I could to touch her, just to see that little frown – it mystified me, and excited me, and it changed the way Santana treated me, too.

If Quinn noticed, she was happy or relieved to find us finally getting along. She spent most of her free time stalking Finn Hudson and trying to get him to date her, and I knew that it made Santana fill with rage whenever she noticed it. I wanted to soothe them – I wanted to direct Quinn away from Finn, however I could – but a selfish part of me wanted Santana to focus on _me_ instead of Quinn, at least for a little while. I can't help it that sometimes my own hunger gets the best of me. It's not one of my proudest moments.

I didn't know anything about the way Quinn was interacting with you until after Christmas break. I was looking for her – she had promised that we would build snowmen in her front yard with Santana before it got dark – and I pushed the auditorium doors open on the off chance that she was practicing piano there.

I saw that she had you cornered against the stage, and the look on your face was almost hopeless, your eyes so big and miserable. I couldn't hear what Quinn said, but I recognized the low threat in it; it was the tone she used whenever she intimidated handsy football players and upstart freshmen on the squad. It made everything inside of me tangle and wrench, and for a moment it felt like I was doing a cartwheel while standing absolutely still – before the door slapped closed behind me and Quinn turned, startled.

"Britt," Quinn said.

Your face showed shock and then it closed up, and you inched away from her.

"Quinn." I tried to swallow the dryness in my mouth. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing." Quinn didn't take any time to start walking towards me, as if she realized how awkward this would be. We never talked about you before that, Rachel, but I'm sure Quinn knew that we were friends once.

"Let's go." she tugged at my arm as she passed.

I stayed there a moment longer, looking at you. You were watching the two of us with a kind of aghast shock – and I noticed that you were thinner, now. You were taller. I wished I could put my hands on you and feel all of the differences.

"Brittany," Quinn said, more quietly, and I relented. I let her lead me out of the auditorium. We were silent, walking through the deserted halls of McKinley, and after a moment she directed me towards the Cheerios locker room.

We didn't have a reason to be here, and when she started undressing, I realized what she wanted.

"Quinn," my voice was unsure. "What about Santana?"

"What?" she looked at me sharply, her Cheerios top half off. "What about Santana?"

I sighed, and I think she could read it on my face. Quinn paused, studying me, before she shook her head. "You were awake that one night."

"Yeah." I bit my lip. "She loves you, I think."

"I love her, too," Quinn answered easily. "But I want you – I want other things."

I nodded. I understood, a little bit. I wanted you, and Quinn, and Santana. It was complicated. It never stops being complicated.

"Are you in love with her?"

Quinn fiddled with the seam of her polyester cheer top, glancing down. "I love Santana, but we aren't ready to be together yet. She couldn't handle what it would do to her reputation." Quinn looked at me and I couldn't decipher her expression – as if she were gauging me, somehow. "My parents would send me to a Pray Away the Gay camp. It isn't time for it yet."

I made a noise, because I didn't know what to say. I didn't pretend to understand what their lives were like, or what the implications were. "Maybe Santana doesn't really care about her reputation."

"She does," Quinn answered sharply. "She said a lot of things that night, but _she's_ the one who –" Quinn's fists clenched suddenly, and her face was angry. "She slept with Noah Puckerman while we were – while we –"

I nodded slowly, thoughtfully. I imagined what it must have felt like for both of them – I wondered if Quinn realized that _she_ was my Puck in relation to you.

"It's better this way," Quinn said with finality. "We both do whatever we want, and make no promises, and make no apologies. It's simple."

I smiled a little sadly at her, because I knew she couldn't possibly believe that. "People make mistakes sometimes, Quinn. Maybe you should forgive her."

Quinn's face darkened, and with an abrupt gesture, she re-zipped up her Cheerios top. "I don't want to talk about this."

"Okay." I sighed. I knew I had upset her, but I wasn't too worried about it. "Please leave Rachel alone, Quinn."

Quinn squinted at me, a little off-guard. "Why?"

"Because she doesn't deserve you bullying her."

Quinn snorted. "She's a disgusting little cretin."

I flinched. "Quinn, she's my friend."

She looked at me with incredulity. "You never talk to her. Ever. I would know if you were friends."

"Okay." I realized that she was right – we weren't friends anymore, were we? – and I picked at the cuticle in my thumbnail. "Quinn, she's like – she's, ah, she's my Santana. You know?"

Quinn looked at me slowly, her face blank, until it finally dawned on her. First, her eyebrows rose, and then her lips pursed. "Real-ly? Rachel?" Then she grimaced. "Ew, Rachel Berry? Brittany!"

I smiled, even though it hurt. "We've been best friends since the second grade. We just don't talk anymore because –" I gave a vague gesture in her direction.

"What?" Quinn glanced around, and then an even more obvious shock came over her. "Oh! You're talking about – when we –" she spun to look in the direction of the showers, and then she gasped. "I remember that! Oh my God!"

"Yeah." I let out a breath. I had never talked to anyone about that, and it still hurt. My chest quivered and heaved. "We haven't been the same since then."

"Were you guys –?"

I shook my head. "I don't know what we were. But it was enough that she was –"

I didn't know _what_, because you never told me. I never worked up the courage to ask you.

Quinn just nodded, as if she understood. After a little while, she let out a short laugh, shaking her head. "Who knew there could be so much screwed up about all of us?"

Who knew, indeed?

Quinn's face softened, and she slid close to me – her eyes were dark in the yellow light of the locker room, almost black, and her lips were red. She smiled as she cupped my cheek, stroking her thumb over the sharp line of my cheekbone. "We could just – do it anyway. Forget about them."

I turned my face and kissed the inside of her wrist, bringing my own hand up to hold hers there. "You don't want to forget about Santana."

Quinn let out a sigh. "I couldn't, even if I did want to."

I knew what she meant.

"You're very beautiful, Quinn. One of the most beautiful people I've ever seen."

Quinn smiled and it reached her eyes, for once.

"Talk to Santana. Figure it out with her. After that, if you still want to, we can."

Quinn nodded. She leaned up on her tip toes to press a soft, firm kiss to my lips, and it reminded me of our friendship – calm and accepting, with only a hint of fire beneath it. I wanted to pull her body close to mine, to bury my nose against her neck, to taste the dark, sweet places of her. But I didn't. Maybe for the first time in my life, I didn't.

"What about you and Rachel?" Quinn asked, once the moment had passed. "Do you want to talk to her before we-?"

I sighed. "No. Rachel doesn't want to talk about it. She doesn't want me, anymore."

Quinn was quiet for a long while, and she spent the whole time studying my face. Her eyes were intense and serious, and it made me slightly self-conscious.

"She does still want you." Quinn was almost reluctant when she said it. "I saw the way she looked at you. It's obvious."

I shook my head in immediate denial. "I'm not sure she will ever forgive me."

Quinn's smile was wry, then. "She will. Someday. Just keep asking for forgiveness, and one day, she'll give it."

I frowned, brought to the realization that I had never – I had never really asked for forgiveness. How could you be expected to give it, then?

Quinn drove me home that day, and we said goodbye with soft kisses on the cheek. I loved the smell and texture of Quinn, and have always, and will always. Quinn is always so clean and neat – she's pristine, even when she cries – and her scent is like summer wildflowers. I love that everything about her is soft, except (sometimes) her voice and her eyes, which can be sharp and cutting like knives.

Santana is the opposite; there's very little _soft_ about her, except perhaps her lips – though I always imagined them to be bruising and brutal – and she seems composed of things that slash and burn, like cayenne and cinnamon and shards of glass. It's her eyes that sometimes betray her with their impenetrable depth; occasionally, I can see the wounded vulnerability of her, and it rocks me to my core.

I still love them, after all this time. They dug themselves into my soul in that time that we weren't friends, don't you see? How could I ever stop loving them?

Quinn was right, I thought. I thought that if I asked – and kept asking – one day, you would forgive me.

I stopped you at your locker the next day, and you were so stunned by my sudden arrival that your jaw nearly dropped.

"I want to apologize," I said in a rush. "I know that I hurt you, Rachel. I never wanted to. I never meant –"

"Brittany." your voice was raw and hoarse, and you looked around with furtive eyes. "We can't do this here."

"You won't _talk_ to me," I insisted. "I just want you to listen –"

"I want you to leave me alone!" you hissed, slamming the door. Several other students glanced in our direction and your jaw clenched. "Brittany, what's done is done. Move past it."

I bit my lip, breathing through my nose. "Rachel, I miss you. I want – we can still be _friends!"_

I didn't expect you to be so furious, but I could feel it coming off of you in waves. Something had changed you: it made you darker and more livid, and somehow more substantial than before. It nearly knocked me off my feet.

"We aren't friends, Brittany. Maybe we never were."

I wanted to cry. I almost did.

"Please leave me alone. My life is hard enough without you – coming around here, making it worse."

I could think of nothing to say, so I left. I left you there, in your red and blue skirt, white headband, maroon sweater. I had never tasted such hateful words from you, and I didn't know how to cope with them; so I went to my first hour and tried to forget.

You were wrong, Rachel. I wish I would have told you then, but I didn't. I wish I would have said – _you're angry and hurt and I deserve all of the venom you want to spew, but you're wrong. Of course we were friends. We were always friends. I'll always be your friend._

I made that promise to you once, do you remember? I still love you even when you're mean.

I always will.

* * *

Eventually you started dating Finn Hudson, and it was strange to think of you with a boyfriend. I knew that it irritated Quinn – she hated the idea of you having him, even if she didn't want him – but I made her leave you alone. I hoped you were happy. I hoped he made you happy.

Quinn came to me, in the weeks following our discussion in the locker room, and told me that Santana wasn't ready. Neither was she, really. We found reasons to have sex all over that school – we made a game of it. Quinn enjoyed playing it. She would tease me during Cheerios practice, until I was practically squirming with the need to peel her out of her clothes, and then taunt me into running my hand up her skirt beneath the bleachers. She loved it, loved having the power over me, and I loved making her legs weak.

I had a feeling that Quinn still spent time with Santana – or started doing it again, I was never really sure about how long they spent abstaining, if they did at all – and it was confirmed when I noticed a bite mark on her collarbone that wasn't from me. I didn't mind, though. I knew that Quinn loved Santana wholly, and that Santana loved her, too; and that someday, Quinn would stop needing me, and I was fine with that eventuality.

It wasn't until the summer between sophomore and junior year that my curiosity about boys piqued, and that was mostly due to my older sister commenting on it.

"Why don't you have a boyfriend?" she eyed me critically up and down, home from her semester at the University of Ohio. "You're not a scraggly chicken-legged kid anymore. You have boobs. Why don't you have a boyfriend?"

I was too busy cramming Froot Loops into my mouth to really pay attention to her, so I shrugged.

"I had my first pregnancy scare at your age," she warned, pointing her finger at me. "If you're sexually active, tell me. I'll help you get on the pill."

I looked up from the kitchen island to stare at her. I had never thought about boys – like that. Not really. Some boys had tried, certainly; Puck most of all, but also Finn (before he settled with you) and other basketball and football players. A boy named Sam Evans sat on the steps and played guitar every morning, and he smiled at me when I passed.

"Promise me," she insisted. "Abortions are expensive. Better to just prevent them."

"Okay." I hadn't had a sex ed class yet, so I wasn't quite sure what she was talking about, except I knew that _abortions_ were scary and nobody wanted one. "I haven't yet, though."

"No?" she seemed genuinely surprised by that. "Why not?"

"Nobody really.." I stared at my cereal, wondering myself _why not? _ I had kissed a few boys, before I started kissing you. So I didn't know, really. "Nobody cute enough, I guess."

She laughed, and it made me look up at her.

"You'll find somebody. Your hormones will make it so that even the most pizza-faced guy is somehow some kinda sex god. You're just a late bloomer, I guess."

I still think about that conversation sometimes, and how my own sister thought I was a _late bloomer_. As an adult, I knew she was wrong – I had had my first sexual experience with you before most of the people in our grade had had their first kiss – but it unsettled me, somehow. I felt inherently lacking.

Boys. Boys were something I never really thought about, but in that moment, they became a challenge I needed to meet.

* * *

It was late summer before I got the chance to try them out. I hadn't made any quick decisions about who it would be – but I imagined that it would be Puck, probably. He had been more than vocal about how well he liked me since freshman year, and I knew it wouldn't take much convincing. I liked the idea that he had a lot of experience. I preferred it to someone who wouldn't know what they were doing.

I saw Mike Chang at our dance school one evening, and I knew that my plans for Puck were unnecessary. I had never seen Mike dance, but I caught a glimpse of him in one of the empty ballet rooms when I was on my way out – he moved with more grace than anyone I had ever seen in my life. I was always paranoid of running into you here, because it was the most painful place to see you and not be able to touch you or talk to you, but in that moment I lost myself in watching him, and I didn't care if anyone saw me standing there.

It felt like a timeless eternity before he finally stopped, and he was startled to see me there in the doorway – he looked around quickly, a little bashful.

"That was beautiful," I told him without reservation.

"Thanks," he seemed embarrassed. "I didn't know you were watching."

I walked into the room, setting my duffle bag down. "I didn't know that you dance."

He shrugged, refusing to make eye contact. "Not many people do. It isn't something I tell people."

"Why not?"

He gave a short laugh. "I play football."

"So?"

He looked at me, a little disbelieving. I smiled. I realized this was that sort of thing I never had a good grasp of, the social hierarchy and what was and was not acceptable. The kind of thing that people like Quinn and Santana know as if by default – the kind of thing that you are acutely aware of at all times.

"I thought you were hot," I stated bluntly, and watched his eyes widen with surprise.

"Yeah?"

I nodded. I was drawn to Mike more than any boy – maybe I had never really experienced attraction to a male before him, I don't know. I do remember the way his body was sculpted and defined beneath his black wife beater; I remember the sharp ridge of his hips, visible even beneath his sweat pants.

"Do you have plans?"

Mike shook his head, his eyes widening further. "Are you serious?"

"Yes." I was close to him, now; standing within his personal space. He didn't move, exactly, though he seemed a little incredulous – I could smell him, and it wasn't exactly pleasant; the musky, pungent smell of _boy_ that has always made my nose wrinkle. But he also smelled like cologne and hair gel, and his chest looked strong, and I wanted to touch his arms and stomach.

"Can we do it here?" I couldn't help the playful way that I smiled, and I swear that Mike blushed, even though I couldn't see it.

"If you want," he managed, his voice hoarse. "We should close the door – lock it."

I nodded, but I didn't move away from him. Instead, I cupped the base of his neck, pulling him close to me. Kissing Mike was so different from kissing you or Quinn – he was still soft, but I could feel the scratch of his cheeks, and his mouth was more wet, somehow. He was taller than me, and until then, I had never really made out with someone taller than me.

Mike's body was hard in all the places I expected softness; I felt the sharp press of his skeleton beneath his skin, the ropy coil of his muscles, and all I could think about was – well, you.

He held me, and I felt dwarfed in his arms, another sensation I had never really experienced (and I wasn't sure that I liked it). His tongue was rougher and bigger in my mouth than I was used to. But he was gentle, and after a time I relaxed enough to feel my belly tighten in anticipation when his palms roamed low on my back, and then roughly over my ass.

We broke apart and he was smiling – happy, I guess, to be kissing me – so I reached down and tugged my shirt off. His smile dropped – he quickly darted over to the door and closed it, turning the little lock. He removed his own shirt while I slid my shorts down, and the look on his face was just downright flattering. It made me grin to feel so appreciated for something that I really never took a lot of credit for – my body. Mike enjoyed looking at it, and I enjoyed his obvious pleasure.

I let him kiss me again, because I felt a little lost in this instance – I didn't really know where to touch him. It didn't come to me naturally, like it did with you, and when he moved to lay us down on the thin blue mat, I let him – marveling at the strange weight of his body on top of mine. He was lighter than I imagined he would be. I compared the length of his torso to Quinn's, and thought about you when he pressed his lips to the cusp of my throat. I remembered your tongue tracing the line of my pelvis when his hand wandered there, and I shut my eyes against the flood of memories. _Not like this_. I didn't want to have sex with a man the first time to only be aching for you.

I was not used to being under someone – usually, with Quinn, I hovered over her – and it was odd to just lie there, trying to let my body respond. Mike was kind and patient and he went slowly, but there was banked heat in him, too – I felt it in the hard swell against my thigh, through his pants; I could sense the strength in his shoulders and hands.

It felt good. I can't say that it didn't. When Mike's fingers touched me beneath my panties, I was wet, and I moaned into his mouth when he slid them off. I let him unbutton my bra, too, though he was clumsy at it – I arched into him when he put his lips on my nipple. I liked the warmth of it, the way it made a long tugging start down the center of my body – but I noticed, again, the scratch of his cheek against my skin, and it was just a sharp reminder of how _different_ he was. I had grown used to Quinn, and before her, you. I had never imagined having to adjust to things like scratchy cheeks or rough tongues or high, hard shoulders.

Mike tried putting his fingers inside of me, but I didn't really like that – I squirmed, moving my hips, tugging at his hair. They were big and calloused and I didn't think his fingernails were clean. I didn't like the idea of it, because he seemed awkward – at least in comparison to _you,_ who had always been so delicate and deliberate and precise – so he stopped, settling for rubbing against my clit. It made me writhe and groan, just as it always did, and he kissed against my neck; sloppy, now, because he was distracted by his own mounting desire.

"Now," I breathed, because I was impatient – I wanted to get it over with, finally. I wanted to see what it was like.

Mike didn't hesitate. He pulled down the waistband of his sweats, just enough for it to slide out – and I didn't even get to see it, really, because it was a haze of movement and shifting. He slid my legs apart and guided it in with his hand, and he was so, so slow.

It hurt. I never, ever thought that it would. I never associated anything painful with sex before – I always got nothing but joy out of it – so I gasped, surprised, and Mike's progress stuttered to a halt.

"Brittany?" his voice was strained. "Are you okay?"

I couldn't breathe. The pain felt so big – it was a stretching, tearing pain. I felt like this was some kind of huge joke being played on me; did people really enjoy this? How? I squeezed my eyes shut – turning my face away from him.

"Just go slow."

"Is this your - ? Are you a-?"

I bit my lip. "No. No. Just keep going."

Mike didn't seem convinced, but he was already halfway inside of me, and I could tell that he had a hard time thinking clearly. I don't know why I didn't ask him to stop – it _really_ hurt, Rachel, not just a little bit; I felt like he was actually _injuring_ me down there, and that was a scary thought – but he kept going, and after a moment, the pain lessened.

He slid until his hips were flush with mine, and I breathed through the fullness between my legs. It was sore and uncomfortable, but it did seem to grow less agonizing as the seconds ticked by. Mike was wonderful – I know, now, exactly how thoughtful he was being, and how much worse it would have been for me if I had chosen Puck for this – and his rhythm was, at first, subtle; it gave my body enough time to adjust, and when he really started _moving_ it felt good again.

I wanted to come, and there were several times I thought that I was getting close – but then something would distract me, and I wouldn't quite get there. Nothing really stopped the pain entirely, even though it felt good at the same time, and the sensation of his body slapping solidly against mine was satisfying in a primal, nameless sort of way.

He pressed his face against my shoulder, grunting, when his orgasm washed over him – he shuddered, and I was fascinated by the ripple of muscles on his back. I was flooded with a kind of sticky warmth and it made me grimace – I had forgotten about that really weird detail about sex with boys – and, a second later, he slid out of me. I let out a relieved breath. I felt immediately better to have it gone, though there was still soreness there.

Mike was breathing unevenly, and I could smell his sweat. I wanted out from under him. I wanted to take a shower and call Quinn and spend the night holding her. I thought about you, too, briefly – I wondered if you had ever let Finn do this to you, and somehow, imagining that filled me with a restless sort of disquiet.

"You didn't come," Mike said. It wasn't a question.

"No." I agreed. There was no use in lying about it.

"What can I do?"

I smiled, because he was sweet to ask. "It's all right."

"It isn't." he lifted his face to look at me. "I want to."

"I don't know, Mike," I shrugged. "I don't have a lot of experience."

"Really?" he seemed surprised. "I didn't know that."

I wanted to laugh, but I swallowed it down.

"I think I know." Mike said, and then he was moving away from me. I was a little glad to have him off of me – I could breathe more easily – but a second later he was nudging my thighs apart, and I felt his breath hit the inside of my thigh, and my throat closed.

I was used to that sensation, but it still caused a kind of breathless anticipation in me – you were the first person to kiss me there, but Quinn had done it many times since, and she was a master at slow, deliberate lovemaking; she dragged it out with a kind of vicious gloating, too pleased to have me sweating and begging on the sheets. I knew that it always put a cocky smirk on her face, and _that_ made me pin her down and swallow her grin, touching her until she was gasping and desperate. You were never that manipulative, Rachel. I don't think you had learned how to be, yet.

Mike wasn't as careful as you or as skilled as Quinn, but his tongue was soft and insistent, and eventually my back arched. His grip on my hips held me still, and he kept his mouth fused to me even through my orgasm, never halting – he worked me into a second one with only seconds between, and _that_ was the first time that ever happened to me.

I was heaving when he lied beside me, my body sticky with sweat. He smiled affectionately at me, sweeping my hair away from my forehead. "Good?"

I just nodded. I was dazed and a little impressed. I don't think I really thought Mike capable of that much when he started down there.

"This was fun," I said, because it was, really. I smiled at him. "I wish we didn't forget a condom, though."

"Oh." His eyebrows wrinkled. "Do you need me to get you a Plan B pill?"

"Probably." I was still taken with how sweet he was. Mike was a good guy.

"Ah, Brittany – you don't have to worry about – anything else." he rubbed a hand over his hair awkwardly. "I'm – well, I'm clean. You know?"

"That's good." I wasn't really thinking about STDs at that point, but I was glad he was. "I am, too."

"I can help pay for a test if you want to be sure." he seemed anxious. "It's my fault we didn't use a condom. I always do. I just got – distracted."

"It's okay." I smiled, a little charmed by him. "I'll go and get it done. It's not a big deal."

"Okay." He let out a breath. "If you're sure."

I nodded. I was sleepy. I knew I couldn't go to sleep – the mat was thin and hard and uncomfortable – but I wanted to.

"We should probably go. I don't know how late the pharmacy stays open."

"Okay."

I let him help me up, and we dressed in silence. It wasn't awkward between us. I think that impressed me more than anything.

* * *

If the awful side effects of the Plan B pill weren't enough to deter me from having sex with boys, Quinn's reaction to the news certainly was.

I told her during our first sleepover as juniors, and she seemed stunned and appalled – the look on her face was mildly disgusted. Santana sat on Quinn's bed, chewing on her lips to prevent a smile, painting her toe nails black.

"I can't believe you had sex with _Mike_," Quinn's voice was a mixture of astonishment and horror. "He's – he – you let him – in your –"

"That _is_ typically how it works," Santana snarked. She didn't look up when Quinn glared in her direction.

"It was awful." I said, my smile tentative and confused. I didn't understand why Quinn was so upset about it.

"Why did you do it, then?"

I watched Quinn's hands. They were nervous and jittery, and they looked like they wanted something to hold on to. I gave her mine, and in an instant she began filing them – it made the tension inside of me relax, just a little bit. "I wanted to see what it was like."

Santana made a noise in the back of her throat.

"Mike looks like a girl."

I raised an eyebrow at her.

"He's definitely _nothing_ like a girl."

Quinn tossed a bottle of nail polish at Santana. It smacked her soundly on the temple, and the resulting yelp was, just a little bit, satisfying.

"Well, just don't.. do it again. You could get pregnant, or herpes." Quinn studied my fingers for a moment before she began grooming my cuticles.

"Boys, the most dangerous creatures on the planet." Santana didn't tone down her obvious sarcasm. I wanted to laugh, because it was funny – but the way Quinn clenched her jaw made me think better of it.

"You do whatever you want, Goldilocks," Santana said, bemused. She switched to her other foot. "Not all of us are required to be as virginal as the Ice Queen over there."

I knew that this petty argument between them was a symptom of something deeper – I hated being caught in the middle of it.

"Brittany isn't going to jeopardize her health." Quinn's tone was icy.

"There are safe ways to do it," Santana's smirk was slow and languid. "And besides, what else is a girl to do when she wants to get some? Masturbation doesn't scratch everyone's itch, Q."

Quinn sat in silence, fuming. I winced, because her movements were harsh and her fingertips made my knuckles ache. She switched hands and I wiggled my fingers gratefully.

"She wouldn't be mad at you if you were sleeping with another girl," Santana drawled. She couldn't leave it alone, though Quinn's cheeks were pink and furious by this point. "It's just the idea of some penis going into you –"

"That's enough!" Quinn surprised me by shouting. I almost swallowed my tongue. Her eyes were glassy with anger, her lips peeled back in a snarl. "Santana, I've had enough!"

"All right, all right," Santana smirked. She wasn't even the least bit intimidated. "Touchy subject."

Quinn's eyebrows wrinkled angrily above her eyes. I wanted to move away from her, give her some space, but her hands were like claws around mine. She never did miss a nail, though. Quinn always gave the most flawless manicures.

"I'm going to take a shower," Quinn announced, as soon as she was done. She heaved herself up from the carpet and stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Things were better between Santana and I – but we never did overcome that heavy tenseness between us. Now, after being used between them as a kind of weapon, I felt slightly uncomfortable. I blew on my nails and tried not to look at her.

She lied sprawled on Quinn's bed with a magazine in front of her. Her hair was loose, for once, and it fell over her shoulders and neck in a dark sheet. I wanted to touch it – I had always wondered at the texture of it, whether it would be smooth or springy, thick or dry – but I never pushed it with Santana. I contented myself with tentative brushes against her lower back, a thumb along the inside of her wrist. We were never so intimate outside of the school setting. I think we both liked the pretense that being in public gave us, and when we were alone – like now – I couldn't just grin and dart away when she noticed my palm on her side.

"You know, it's too bad Chang didn't really – ring your bell." Santana didn't glance up from her magazine when she said this. "Sometimes, guys aren't half-bad at it."

I shrugged, drawing my knees up to my chest. "The only thing he did that I really liked was – well, the same thing a girl does, anyway. I'll just stick with girls."

Santana glanced up at me, almost distractedly, before she looked back at the magazine. "You think you're gay?"

It was the first time anyone had ever asked me that question. I had an idea of what being gay was – I heard about it everywhere, on TV and in books and flung around the school – but I never really thought to apply it to myself. "I don't know."

Santana hummed. She seemed completely disinterested in the conversation. "I think Quinn is. Probably.. probably more than anyone else I know."

I felt my cheeks flush. I didn't want to talk about Quinn like this – without her present.

"I know you two sleep together."

It made my tongue swell and stick to the roof of my mouth. I had a hard time breathing.

"I'm cool with it." Santana's eyebrow quirked. "Mostly. I wish she would just realize –"

I waited for Santana to finish her thought, but she never did.

Instead, she looked up at me, and this time I felt the weight of her gaze; it was dark and brutal and almost angry.

"I'm good at it."

I wasn't exactly following her, and I think she could tell.

"Ugh, why do you have to be so hot but so clueless?" she flipped the page in her magazine viciously. "I'm good at sex."

"Oh."

Santana sighed, aggravated. "It was an offer, blondie."

I blinked. "_Oh._"

Santana frowned. "Is that all you're going to say?"

I fiddled with my thumb, looking down at it. "I don't think you actually want to have sex with me, Santana. I think you want to get back at Quinn – or me, or someone. I don't want that."

Santana was silent long enough that I looked up at her curiously. She was thinking, and she seemed rather baffled by the thoughts in her own head.

"Look." her voice was strangely gentle. It put my nerves on edge. "I get why you think that. I really do. I haven't exactly been nice to you." she rolled her eyes. "I've got some people skills I need to work on. But the truth is – you are pretty hot. I know you're working with _something,_ or Q wouldn't be on you like she is. I'm just saying…" Santana bit her lip, and it made me notice how full and pretty they were. "If you ever want to scratch the itch again – we would have fun together, I think."

I swallowed a breath. "Maybe so."

Santana smiled, cocking her head. I felt my belly tighten in anticipation of what she was going to say next – but she never got the chance to say it, because Quinn came in, wrapped in a towel and dripping. There was still mad all over her, I could tell. She practically vibrated with it.

"Go take a shower, Santana," Quinn ordered.

"Nuh uh," Santana grinned, rolling onto her back. "I'm fine without one."

I got the feeling that Quinn wanted Santana to leave because she wanted to have sex with me. The way Quinn kept angling her body towards me and glaring at Santana gave me that impression. I was finding that the place between them was growing more uncomfortable by the minute; I leapt to my feet, on the brink of offering to go myself, when Santana said –

"Look, there's a simple way to solve this."

"What are you talking about?"

Santana didn't answer. Instead, she lifted herself up onto her knees, and pulled her shirt over her head.

"You're crazy if you think that's going to work," Quinn hissed.

"You're sexy when you're mad," Santana grinned, unfazed by Quinn's fury. She scooted to the edge of the bed and, kneeling, grabbed Quinn's hips. Her smile was lazy and confident – as if she knew that Quinn would only pretend to resist.

"Uh," I pushed at my bangs. "I'm going to –"

"Stay." Santana said. She didn't take her eyes off of Quinn, who was glaring at her with silent rage.

"I don't think –"

"What's there to think about?" Santana slid her gaze towards me, and I felt myself responding – even though I didn't particularly want to – to the liquid desire in it.

"You really want -?" Quinn asked. She was looking directly at Santana.

Santana smiled. "It's just sex."

Quinn frowned. I think she suspected Santana of playing a trick. I sort of did, too – but I knew that I didn't imagine the heat between us. It had been building for most of a year, and I was eager to see Santana underneath her clothes; I was also really entranced by the thought of watching Quinn and Santana together.

"Get naked," Santana ordered, and I knew it was aimed towards me. She reached behind herself and unclasped her bra, which was enough convincing for me. Santana slid the towel out of Quinn's hands, and Quinn didn't resist. I debated for an instant longer before I did what she asked.

Quinn gave me an uneasy smile when I sidled up next to her, and I tried to make my own reassuring. I pressed a gentle kiss to her lips in an effort to ease her nerves – her hand tangled in my hair, grateful, I think, for the distraction.

Santana made a low noise in her throat. "This is gonna be so hot."

* * *

I keep that memory of the three of us close to me – mostly because I understand it better, now, with the passage of the years. I got the opportunity to see what intimacy looks like between two people who truly love each other; I got to watch Quinn's face change in ways I had never been able to see it before. I discovered that Santana tasted exactly as I thought she would – and that her hands were impatient and almost painful in the way they gripped me, as if she were terrified of losing even an ounce of control.

Santana stopped being angry with me after that. If nothing else, I'm grateful that it changed that between us – I got to see the side of her that few ever do; the way that Santana is, in her private moments, nothing but a clown. I think even she doesn't suspect it. Quinn and I know, though – we see the faces she pulls and the way she dances when she thinks no one is watching.

It made me ache for you, though. I left Quinn's house the next morning feeling strangely calm – I was still overwhelmed by an indescribable emotion. I could still feel them on my fingertips, but most of all, my chest was full of the way they looked at each other – the way they kissed and held one another. I never loved them more than I did then, seeing them like that. But it made me miss you.

It was early when I pulled up in your driveway. I was driving by then, my sister's hand-me-down volkswagon, something I never had the chance to share with you. We missed out on so much, didn't we, Rachel?

I hadn't really thought about what I was doing before I did it, but I shimmied up the lattice that still connected to the side of your house. The morning was gray and damp, but I knew the sun would be coming out from behind the clouds before too long.

Your window was unlocked, almost as if you expected me. It made me wonder if you ever hoped I would climb through it again – it had been years, at that point, since I had done it. We were both juniors, now. We only had a year left in high school. It felt like a lifetime ago that we were short, pudgy freshmen with wild eyes and excited hearts. I was sad for those children that we used to be – I'm sad, now, for the me who was sad then; because we were just children still, and didn't feel like it anymore.

You were sleeping. I wanted badly to climb into bed with you, to thread my fingers through your hair and listen to your even breathing, to let it lull me to sleep. But I didn't have the right to it anymore – I knew that it would only do more harm than good.

I laid the sunflower I brought with me on the pillow next to you. It was a sad stand in, but it would have to do. I wanted to leave more. I had words building up inside of me – words and emotions and too much longing – but I never, ever knew what to do with them. I watched you for as long as I dared, until I heard the sound of your dad puttering around downstairs, before I finally left.

I thought that I imagined you murmuring my name as I slid back down, but I made myself believe it was just a dream.

* * *

I brought you jacinths the next week, and the week after that, I left a bushel of prairie star flowers. I learned a lot about flowers that year. I tried to find the right ones that would make you forgive me.

You never said anything to me, though I almost died with wanting you to. Sometimes, I would catch you in the hallways, looking at me – you would always shut your locker door quickly and scurry off whenever my eyes met yours. Often, I saw you beneath the heavy arm of Finn Hudson, and his weight seemed to crush you by degrees: you shrank and shrank, and grew quiet.

We had biology together that year. I tried not to let it get to me when you paired up with a girl named Mercedes instead of me.

I always expected to find your window locked – I thought you would grow tired of me invading your privacy. I thought you would tear into me for feeling entitled to climb into your room. I almost _wanted_ you to scold me. Anything. Any acknowledgment of my existence.

Santana continued to tutor me through my classes. She sat the three of us down together and we all picked classes so that I had one or the other of them in nearly every one. Quinn and Santana were good friends to me, Rachel. Without them, I don't know if I would have graduated.

Sometimes, Santana would pin me against the lockers, and she always grinned at the way she could make me pant – Santana was so compact and _small_ compared to me, but she had a kind of innate strength in her that always surprised me. I loved how her lips were soft and almost bitter, and that her kisses always hurt, just a little bit.

Quinn never stopped having our sleepovers, and she liked to steal my kisses from my dreams. I can't count how many times I woke up with her tongue in my mouth and her hands unknotting the strings of my pajama pants.

Even despite this, it wasn't so strange a thing of Santana to say to me, one day, after we showered with the rest of the squad –

"You know, you might give Puckerman a try."

I was busy toweling off my hair, but I looked at her anyway. She was gathering her hair up in a sloppy bun on top of her head, and didn't even look at me.

"I know that Chang didn't really do it for you, but Puck, he's decent. If you were still – curious."

I didn't understand what Santana was offering. I shrugged. "Probably not."

Santana smiled. "Just a thought."

It was a thought that never left me, not truly. I remembered Mike fondly, but I had heard much more since then about the sexual prowess of men. I knew that Santana still slept with them on occasion. All of the other girls on the Cheerios had a boyfriend, and many of them had 'dated' Puck at some time or another.

I did feel a little left out. I wanted to understand what drew other girls to them, what exactly it was that made them worthy of desire.

I got drunk at his house one night. He had invited over the entire football team and the Cheerios, too – so Quinn and Santana were there. Finn was, too, but I didn't see you. It didn't surprise me that you wouldn't come to a thing like this. The music was loud and throbbing, the air thick with smoke, and everyone was drinking and dancing wildly.

I don't remember a lot of it, Rachel. What I do remember is the way the walls were spinning because I drank too much rum and coke, and how Puck's house – it was run down, the plaster of the walls were cracked – made me feel claustrophobic. There were too many people in too little a space.

Puck found me, somehow. I had a hard time standing up. I don't recall a lot of what happened, but I know that he pushed me into his bedroom – he kissed me, and he tasted like smoke and vodka. I remembered feeling the muscles in his arms and shoulders, and thinking about Mike. Puck was much bigger than Mike. I needed to pee.

I remember him asking me a question – I remember answering (slurring) _no_ – and I remember that he didn't listen to me. I'm glad, in the years since then, that I don't remember more than that. I know that when it was over, I felt hollow and numb, and I could hear the blood swimming inside of my ears. I might have lied in Puck's bed for the rest of the night – he had left me as soon as he was through – if it weren't for Quinn.

Quinn refused to drink at parties like this. Santana confided in me once it was because Quinn had a pregnancy scare before she ever met me, and she refused to get drunk around men ever since then. I never thought about it – really – until after that night. I wonder, even now, if the same sort of thing happened to Quinn. I couldn't bring myself to ask her. I felt, in the weeks and months following that, too ashamed to bring it up. I think, sometimes, I am still ashamed.

I didn't know that I was crying until Quinn asked me why I was. I couldn't answer her. The words felt like thick vomit in my mouth – my tongue wouldn't obey me, anyway. The room was spinning too much for me to make sense of words.

Santana came in next. She had been drinking – I could tell – but she sobered up when she saw me.

"What happened?"

I think that I drunk-dreamed the concern in her voice.

"I don't know. She won't talk to me."

Santana crouched down next to the bed. It was hard to see her through the wetness in my eyes, which turned everything in a broken prism. I blinked, because Santana was too pretty to ruin with tears. I wanted to touch her cheek, where her dimples hid. I pushed one finger against it, and she held my hand, gently.

"Who?"

I sniffled. I couldn't think his name, much less say it. I didn't know what had happened to me.

"Was it Puck?"

Quinn's voice was strangely flat. I think I must have dreamed that, too.

I didn't respond, but something on my face was answer enough for Santana.

Her face grew dark and dangerous for just an instant – and then she flung herself away from me. Quinn said her name urgently – she seemed almost scared – but Santana brushed her aside. Puck's bedroom door slammed open and slapped closed again. It was much quieter in the room without her, even though she hadn't said much before she left. Just her presence was loud. I missed her.

Quinn took my hand and squeezed it between both of hers. I think she was crying.

I didn't want her to cry.

"I'm sorry." I croaked. My mouth felt weird and numb. I tasted smoke on my own tongue and it made my stomach roll.

"No." Quinn denied the apology. "No, Brittany. Don't be sorry."

I was sorry. I still am.

A few minutes later, Mike came stumbling in. His eyes were wide and almost panicked – Quinn tensed, turning to face him, putting her body between me and him.

"Hey." Mike sounded breathless. "Santana told me to – uh." He gestured towards me. "Carry her out? She can't walk?"

"No." Quinn's tone was guarded. "Are you sober?"

"I'm good." Mike wasn't sober, but he was good. I did remember that.

"Don't drop her." Quinn said it like it was a warning. He made a hat tipping gesture before he reached down and scooped me up.

I think that there was some commotion going on in the house. Well – no, I _know_ that. Quinn fidgeted with her keys in the front seat of her car, and I lied prone in the back. Mike didn't stick around. It took an indescribably long time for Santana to join us in the car, and when she did, she was shaking – her body trembled with unreleased energy.

"Santana!" Quinn gasped. They're fuzzy images in my mind now, but I remember the sound of Quinn's voice – how concerned she was.

"It's fine. Let's go."

Santana slammed the door shut, glanced back at me briefly.

"She asleep?"

"I don't know."

"Britt!" Santana shook me roughly. "Don't pass out. What if you have a concussion or something?"

"She didn't hit her head."

"How do you know?"

I felt bad that they were worrying so much for me, so I rolled my head and blinked at Santana. It was hard to do, but I did it.

"What if she has alcohol poisoning?"

Santana frowned, studying me. "She might."

"You broke your hand."

"It's fine." Santana grunted. "Do we need to take her to the hospital?"

"I don't know." Quinn's voice was small. "I wish – I wish –"

"It isn't your fault. It's nobody's fault."

I felt like it was my fault, no matter how often I would hear that in the coming months.

"She probably needs to see a doctor. Because of – him."

"Britt. Do you want to go to the hospital?"

Santana's face was close to mine. I remember seeing her eyes, so large and expressive. They reminded me of ink wells and oil spills and the lightless night sky.

"No." My mouth felt like it was filled with cotton.

"Are you sure?"

I nodded my head. I couldn't tolerate the idea of being in an E. R.

"Take us back to my house. I'll talk to my mom."

Santana's mom is a nurse. She's one of my favorite people on the planet.

I fell asleep on the ride back to Santana's house. I woke up, vaguely, when the pair of them carried me inside and somehow managed to heave me up the stairs – I let them pull my clothes off and wipe the spilled alcohol from my skin with damp rags. I couldn't move, and I didn't want to. I think I even slept through some of it. Maybe I don't remember most of it now because it's better that way.

Santana slept with her arm curled over my waist. I slept fitfully and woke up before the sun properly rose – my head was surprisingly clear. It couldn't have been more than four hours of sleep, but I could see. I remembered the night in a flash – I felt mortification and dread when I tried to piece it together. I remembered hearing Santana say, "I'll talk to my mom," and I knew that there was nothing else I wanted less in this world than to sit with that sweet, kind woman and have her look at me with pity in her eyes.

I crawled away from Santana and her arm, which was meant to be comforting, I'm sure. I saw how Quinn clung to Santana as if there were nothing else in this world. I loved them, but I couldn't stand to be around them.

I slipped out of Santana's bedroom window, and I picked my way through other people's back yards for several blocks. It was early morning – the sun was still only a distant pink line on the horizon – when I finally made my way to your house.

I hadn't brought flowers this time. I hadn't had time for it. I actually hesitated because I realized that – if I didn't have flowers, I didn't have a reason to be here.

I looked around at the calm green lawns. They were neat squares all lined up in a row. I didn't want to pick any from your dads' flower bed. It took me a long time before I dragged myself around to your backyard and, after a moment, I picked a dandelion growing between the roots of the oak tree. I shielded it with my body as I climbed up the lattice – slower, this morning, than I had ever been. I was beginning to feel the ache in my body, and my stomach roiled dangerously. I knew that my head was going to be pounding soon, and I had a feeling I would spend the better part of the day attached to a toilet. But I had to see you. I needed something to soothe the wound on my soul.

I put the dandelion on your pillow, and this time I couldn't stop myself from touching you. I ran my fingers through the thick length of your hair – it was soft and silky, just as I remembered it. I took longer than I should have to leave, and by the time I was sliding your window up again, you had rolled over. I caught a glimpse of your open eyes just before I lowered myself out of the window, and I knew that I'd been caught.

I definitely heard you whisper my name –_ Brittany_ – but I couldn't halt my backwards motion. I didn't bother to look up and see if you were watching me as I walked away. I couldn't face you, just then. I still needed to spend time with myself before I chanced time with you.

* * *

We didn't talk about it at school.

Santana's hand was broken. She came in with a cast and an angry look on her face. Puck's face was worse – he didn't show up for another week, and the damage was still severe. I wanted to ask if he had any broken bones to match hers. I wanted to kiss each one of her fingers.

I did neither of those things.

I heard kids whispering about it – what might have happened to cause such a fight between them? There was so much gossip. I thought I would throw up every time I heard about it.

Quinn tried to talk to me, but I wouldn't let her. It was as if the whole thing was a gruesome nightmare, and I kept it clamped inside of me – I didn't even want to face it. Quinn seemed troubled by this, but she understood. She held my hand whenever she could, and the pressure of her fingers was reassuring.

Santana never tried to talk to me about it. I think Santana understood – more than Quinn – why I didn't want to relive it. But I caught her watching me more often after that. I always felt her eyes on me whenever I least expected it – and she stayed as close as she dared, challenging other people with her eyes to get close to me. I appreciated her protectiveness, but I felt awful about it, too. I hated that she felt compelled to protect me.

I saw more of you in the weeks after that. I think you were curious about it. Did you sense that something awful had happened?

I waited for you to find me, to ask me about the flowers. I waited for anything from you – I would have welcomed anger or accusations. I would have let you rain hatred and insults on me. I wanted you, Rachel, however you would have me.

But you never came.

Eventually, the rumors died away. Santana glared at Puck any time he came near either of us, and he had the look of a sullen, vicious dog – the kind that slinks away from kicking feet, but won't hesitate to bite once your back is turned. I grew cold at the sight of him, and sometimes my ribs would contract inwards.

I finished out the end of that school year feeling like I gradually faded away. I felt like a ghost – haunting the halls, immaterial. Quinn and Santana never let me leave, not completely. They kept me grounded and real when all I wanted to do was dissolve into mist.

I'm grateful to them, now.

I started leaving you different kinds of flowers: roses, daffodils, lilies. I even tried an orchid once.

I spent that summer sleeping more than is humanly possible for a teenage girl to sleep. I think my parents worried. They always frowned at me over dinner, as if I were some troubling puzzle they needed to sort out.

I lost weight and I carried a listless, hollow look in my eyes. It was just symptoms of the darkness that had pushed itself inside of me – eventually it came out – but it worried everyone. I hated worrying them. I didn't know how not to.

My parents bought me a kitten. I think they thought it would make me happy.

He helped. I spent time recording him on my little webcam and patching together videos. I put them up on YouTube and people liked it. The fact that people I never met enjoyed the things I created made me feel – lighter somehow. I felt myself becoming _myself _again.

He was a black striped kitten who purred and flopped around cutely, and I thought of you. I thought of a name that I hoped you would like – Elvis. He reminded me of you: always hamming it up for the cameras. He was a rockstar, just like Elvis. It was a good name for him.

By the time senior year started, whatever had broken inside of me mended itself as well as it could. I laughed during Cheerios practice and yelled during football games. I let Santana and Quinn sleep on either side of me during our sleepovers, and I enjoyed Saturday morning cartoons and Rice Krispy Treats on the couch in Quinn's den.

I never kissed them again, though. I wanted to – sometimes I got close to doing it – but I never could. I think they understood, somehow, though we didn't talk about it. They let me play with their hands and braid their hair and massage their feet, and they never tried to kiss me.

Once, Quinn pulled Santana close to her in the middle of the night, and I lied with my head cradled on a pillow and watched them. There was something different about it this time – something I couldn't name – and it made my heart swell with such a fierce and furious pain.

I could tell that they were happy. There was a kind of relaxation in Santana that I had never seen before – maybe that night changed things for them, too. I hoped that some good came out of it.

I tried marigolds and begonias, camellias and carnations and daisies. I tried every combination imaginable. I'm sure you had more dirt in your bed that year than you ever did growing up, when we would sleep together like puppies, still covered in sand from the playground.

I feel like that year went by more quickly than any of the other ones did – why is that? I think it's because I knew I was just waiting for it to be over. I was waiting for this chapter of my life to close and for the next to start.

I don't know how or why I knew it, but I knew that I wouldn't start it without you. It was a quiet, calm reassurance – I remember it coming over me any time I felt a kind of panic when faced with my future. I had counselors and coaches and parents and teachers and friends all badgering me about colleges and scholarships and cheerleading programs; it was a lot to deal with. I didn't want to. I wanted to bury myself in my blankets and read Peter Pan and imagine us acting it out together like we did when we were in the fifth grade.

As the year progressed, however, the patience I had was growing thin. It felt like time was accelerating – and I knew that it was also running out.

Quinn styled my hair for my senior pictures. Santana helped me pick out my prom dress. I didn't have a date, but I didn't mind.

Quinn almost cried when she told me that she and Santana were going to go together.

I almost cried, too.

I was looking forward to prom – I wanted to see them, and you, all dressed up. I was glad that somehow Santana found her courage. I was happy that Quinn had finally forgiven her.

On senior skip day, I heard a group of football players talking about you, and it changed my mind about that night.

"I heard Hudson is finally going to pop her cherry," one of them said. I didn't know his name.

"That loser he's been dating for forever? About time."

"She's gonna give it up on prom night. What a cliché."

I don't think those boys even knew how to spell the word 'cliché,' but that's beside the point.

Thinking about you having sex with Finn Hudson made me mildly uncomfortable, even though I knew that it was a possibility all along. I hadn't even tried to guess if you had ever done it before then – I didn't want to think about it – but hearing that made me realize that I was desperate for it not to happen.

Quinn and Santana wanted us to get ready together, but I knew that if I did, their date would turn into a group of friends hanging out, and I wanted more for them. Now, I knew all I wanted to do was find you.

It was still early evening when I stood outside your window. Your light was on. The sky was turning purple – I knew that Finn would be here for you soon.

I wasn't afraid when I climbed the lattice up to your room. I knew that I should be, but I wasn't. I felt that same strange, weighted calm again; I felt like an anchor sinking in the ocean, but with no fear of drowning.

You didn't even seem surprised when your window slid upwards. You were sitting on the edge of your bed, your hair half-curled, with your face in your hands. You didn't flinch when I shut the window behind me, as if you had been waiting for me the whole time.

You were crying. It was a heart-wrenching, ragged sound; it made me think of bones breaking and lungs tearing. I wanted to hold you – but I knew I couldn't, not yet.

"You're like jacinths, Rachel. They symbolize sincerity. You were always right about that."

You cried even harder into your hands, and I realized that, even if it wasn't the right time for it, I had to put my arms around you. I sat beside you on your mattress and laid the bundle of flowers in your lap. Then I pulled your body towards me, and you pushed your face into my neck.

The instant shock of holding you after all that time – it almost paralyzed me. I felt a strange kind of vertigo: the floor shifted and spun, whirling in a crazy rhythm, and I could hardly breathe through the intensity of it. I felt all of the blood drain out of my face and then flood to my heart, spreading an almost painful warmth through my body. I could barely feel my arms – they seemed weak and flimsy – but I could feel your breath, wet and hot, and the stinging spill of your tears on my skin.

"You and your stupid flowers," you sobbed. You clutched at them blindly, holding their stems. "You and your stupid face and your stupid, stupid flowers."

I wanted to make a joke – how can a flower be stupid, Rachel? – but I didn't. I just held you, and rocked, and you clung to me as if I were your only chance to live.

"Why can't you just go away?" you were so angry with me. "Why can't you just leave me alone?"

"I'm sorry," I whispered, because I was. I didn't want to hurt you any more than I had – but I couldn't leave you, either.

"I'm tired of hearing that you're sorry." you sniffed, rubbing your face against me. "I wish you never came back. I wish you stayed away. I wish you never left."

You weren't making sense, but it made a perfect kind of sense to me. I breathed through my nose, pushing the pain away. I wanted to let you say all the things you needed to say.

"I hate that I need you so much."

I felt my heart squeeze, and I closed my eyes.

"It's been – how long?" you pressed your palm into your cheek, "and you're still here? You just come here and find me like this and we're – we're doing this, now?"

I didn't try to talk to you. You didn't want me to, not really. You just wanted me to listen.

"The last time I even remember talking to you was almost two years ago. Why are you here?"

I shrugged. It was a long time before I said, "I never really left."

You laughed, and the sound was bitter. But you didn't let go of me. You didn't pull your face away from my neck. I smelled your shampoo – it was still strawberry – and your laundry detergent. I couldn't believe how much it made me want to cry.

"How did you know I wanted you to be here so much?"

That question had more sincerity than any other had. I knew that you wanted a real answer.

"I heard about you and Finn. I wanted to make sure you didn't make a mistake."

You pulled away from me then. I felt my insides tremble, when faced with the inevitability of looking into your eyes. They were swollen and red, and you squinted at me around a sheet of tears.

"That's very kind of you to ride in like a white knight, saving the day," you were angry still. "I don't need you to protect me, Brittany."

"I know." I tried to keep my eyes on you, instead of looking at my hands. It was hard. "But Rachel – I made a mistake, once. I've been paying for it ever since." I bit my lip. You were watching me, and – I think – finally hearing me. "I don't want you to do the same thing."

You were silent for a long moment, and then another wave of tears spilled down your cheeks – you sobbed, pushing your hands into your lips.

"It was supposed to be _you_," your tone was accusing and full of blame. I knew that I deserved every bit of it. "It was supposed to be _you_, and we were supposed to have a picnic by the river, and we were supposed to take each other to homecoming and to the fair and spend Christmas in Portland with my aunt – this is all wrong!"

I think you almost wanted to slap me. I know that I would have felt better if you had.

"I had all of these plans for this!" you were almost shouting, now. "I had everything mapped out – how our entire high school years would go – and you just _ruined_ it!

"It's almost over and now you're here! _Now!"_

"I came as much as I could." I wondered if that sounded enough like an apology.

"It wasn't enough." You choked on a sob, crying into your hands. "It was too much."

"I wish I could change it, Rachel." I felt my throat sting and swell, but I fought back the tears. I didn't want you to think that I was crying to try to get sympathy from you. I wanted you to give me as much as you had to give without feeling even the slightest guilt. "I wish we – I wish it was different."

"You had to join the Cheerios. You had to be friends with _her_."

I swallowed. "I'm sorry."

"She tortured me, Brittany. She tortured me in middle school and she kept doing it until you – until you made her stop." You pushed at the tears on your cheeks angrily. "Do you know what it did to me, to see you with _her?_ She's – she's blonde and pretty and perfect, and _nothing like me_, don't you see that? How could you think -?" you almost choked on your own words, and I wanted so badly to kiss the wetness from your cheeks. "How could you think it wouldn't – _betray me_?"

"You never told me she was cruel to you." My voice was small and quiet, even to my own ears. "You never told me – Rachel, I didn't know. I never knew. I can't _know_ everything."

"You should have known that!" you were so sure of it that I didn't want to contradict you. "You should have known – _at least_ – that I was in love with you!"

I inhaled sharply. Hearing it, even then, made my breastbone feel tight. My heart was strangled and I felt sharp, shooting pain down my left arm. I imagined I might be going into cardiac arrest.

"I know. I know, I know, I know," I whispered. "I didn't see it – maybe I just couldn't – but I should have. You're right."

You stopped, almost mid-rant, to stare at me through puffy eyes. I think maybe you expected me to make excuses or argue. I don't know what you expected.

"I am right." you whispered.

I nodded.

"I hate that I miss you so much," you swallowed. "I hate that – I hate that I want it to still be you."

I looked at you carefully. I didn't know what to feel. I couldn't let myself hope that you had forgiven me – yet – but my heart danced so violently in my chest, I prayed for any kind of relief. I felt like my organs had to be bruised and mushy by now, due to the tumultuous rhythm of my heart.

"I shouldn't even care about you anymore." you huffed, rubbing at your nose. "Normal people don't still feel this way after so long."

I sighed, and I reached out between us – I held your hand between both of mine, pressed a kiss to your knuckles.

"Maybe we were never meant to be normal people."

You wiped at your cheek, and I thought you might be done crying.

"Did you ever love me, Brittany?" the solemnity in your voice made my jaw clench and my stomach drop. "Were you ever – in love with me?"

I rubbed my thumbs over your fingers and I tried to think. I tried to remember – my life is so much of you that it seems silly that I had to struggle to do it, once – and I recalled the look of your pigtails in ballet class, the way we would dance together to old Beatles songs; how you would pick the pieces of ham out of your salad and feed me all of your cherry tomatoes because you didn't like them. I remembered baking chocolate chip cookies and roasting marshmallows, swimming in the dark and your voice humming showtunes at every turn.

"I always loved you, Rachel," I said. You went still, as if you couldn't quite believe it. "I was always in love with you."

"I won't ask you _why_, then," you choked. "I don't think I want to know."

The answer is – because even I didn't know, then. Maybe I never knew how much I loved you until I didn't have you anymore.

"Do you still love me?"

It felt brave of me to ask the question. I was terrified of your answer.

You looked at my face – and I couldn't read the expression on yours. I thought how odd it was that you were such a stranger to me, now.

"Of course I do."

I breathed.

"How could it end up like this?" you wiped at your face again – you weren't done crying, after all. "How did we mess it up so badly?"

I didn't say it then, Rachel, but I have thought it since – maybe everything happened exactly the way it was supposed to. Maybe if we hadn't gone through the wilderness of our adolescence that way, we would have never made it to paradise.

"I just know that I love you. I don't want you to go out with Finn Hudson."

You studied me for a moment before you said, "I don't owe you anything."

"I know that." I squeezed your hand, swallowed. "I know that I'm selfish and wrong."

You rubbed furiously at your face again, almost as if you resented the way your eyes kept watering. "It would serve you right for me to kick you out of here, and for me to go to prom with him. You deserve it."

I didn't say anything – not even to agree with you. I couldn't abide that thought. I wanted to pull you to me, hold you in my lap, press my face against yours and breathe you in; I couldn't tolerate the idea that some other person might do that instead.

"Your stupid flowers."

You stopped fighting your tears, then. They came back in a flood – and this time you flung yourself into me, your arms circling my waist. I held you against me and let you cry, my own tears leaking quietly down my face. I felt indescribably giddy to hold you like this again; but my chest ached and my stomach hurt, and everything inside of me felt like razorblades and glass and broken promises.

The flowers I brought you lied forgotten on the floor, a mess of battered petals.

I'll never forget the way they looked, with starlight filtering through your window. I'll never forget the scent of crushed jacinths and the way it mingled with the hot smell of your tears.

_ah, come with me!_

_I'll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon,_

_that floats forever and a day;_

_I'll sing you the jacinth song_

_of the probable stars;_

* * *

**A/N: **As always, thank you for your patience. This was a long time coming. I hope you let me know what you think.


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